He puts the phone down. He doesn’t move for a moment, his back to me, his shoulders barely hitching up and down with his breath. Then he tips forward, taking hold of the phone cable, and rips it out of the wall.
Turns out he doesn’t trust me enough to leave it plugged in. Definitely smart on his part, but crappy luck for me. He picks up the entire phone and carries it to the door just as someone starts to knock on it. I don’t even see who it is. No words are spoken. Rebel shoves the phone through the gap in the door and then takes hold of a bottle of liquor, pulling his arm back through the gap, and then the door is closed again. Whoever was on the other side must be used to this kind of behavior; he leaves without a single comment.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” I ask.
Rebel’s head snaps up, like he’d forgotten I was even here. “Was that part of our deal? Am I supposed to apprise you of everything that happens in my club now?”
“From the look on your face, this didn’t happen inside your club, asshole. Why do you have to be so fucking rude, anyway? I’m scared. You want to keep me calm. The smartest thing you can do is explain what I just saw on the TV, why you’re tearing into that bottle like it’s your last goddamn lifeline.” He really is tearing at it. He can’t seem to keep still long enough to focus and open the plastic seal properly. I can tell he’s growing more and more tense by the second just from looking at him. I hold out my hand, taking the bottle from him as he passes me. He doesn’t stop me. He’s too busy staring at the floor as he paces back and forth, opening and closing his hands into fists.
I catch my nail under the plastic seal on the bottle, opening it easily, and I twist the screw cap, wincing at the burning smell that immediately hits my nose. Rebel picks up the television remote and throws it as hard as he can against the wall.
“Fuuuck!”
My heart starts slamming underneath my ribcage. I thought it earlier, that despite how he looks, I didn’t think Rebel was really a violent man. Now I can see it, though. I can see how he would be absolutely crazy if the situation required it of him. He blows hard, his breath rushing in and out of his lungs so forcefully I can hear him panting. He storms toward the door and then changes his mind, heading back toward the bathroom. Flexing his hands again, it’s as though he’s itching for something else to throw.
“Rebel?” He doesn’t seem to hear me. “Rebel.”
He stops pacing. Stares at me. “What?” he growls.
“You’re starting to scare me.” I don’t know what I hope to accomplish by telling him that, but it’s as though I’ve just struck him across the face. The man who was throwing things and ripping phones out of walls , on the brink of a nuclear explosion, is suddenly gone. He lets out one final, rage-filled exhalation, and by the time he’s run out of breath, he’s calm. He leans back against the wall, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Fuck. Sorry, Soph.” He takes a moment, fingers digging into his hair, and then he slides down the wall until he’s sitting on the floor. “There’s a woman. A crazy fucking head case of a woman, who is sorely pissed at me, and this is her way of getting back at me.” He jerks his thumb at the TV, shaking his head. “She wanted me to kill this DEA guy. I told her I didn’t want the club involved in anything remotely to do with the DEA, so she’s gone and killed the fucker and made it look like it was us anyway. To teach me a lesson.”
I bridge my knees, still clutching hold of the bottle of…of Lagavulin? It stinks like nothing else. Rebel watches me tuck the towel up underneath me so that I’m not flashing him, a wan smile lifting up one corner of his mouth. He looks like he’s at a loss. “What does it mean, then? Will the cops come arrest you for this?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says.
“And you’ll go to jail?” I thought I’d rejoice a little more at that prospect, but the past few hours…I don’t know. Maybe I’m changing my mind about him. God, I’m not turning into one of those Stockholm bitches. I refuse. Seriously unhealthy stuff right there. But, from what he’s told me, I can see that Rebel’s reasoning behind trying to get me to help him is honorable. He’s just really not gone about it the right way.
“I don’t know. I mean, I’ve been with you the whole time that shooting was taking place. You could always tell the cops we were holed up in here all day.”
“And why would the police believe I was hiding out in a motel room with the head of a motorcycle gang, when I’ve clearly been reported as a missing person back in Seattle by now?”
Rebel leans forward, forearms resting on his knees, his eyes flashing with less worry now and more…something else. Something that makes my skin feel strange, like it’s glowing. “Young women run away and lock themselves in motel rooms with hot bikers all the time, sugar. I’d be happy to show you what activities they might engage in to pass the time. And we’re not a motorcycle gang. We’re a club.”
My cheeks are on fire. I know exactly what he’s referring to, of course. He’s suggesting we have sex, and that is not going to happen. “You swore you wouldn’t rape me,” I say, using the hand I’m holding the whiskey in to point at him accusingly. He takes the bottle from me and raises it to his lips, eyes locked on me the whole time. He drinks, swallows, inhales sharply, and then grins.
“I didn’t say anything about anyone being forced into anything, sugar. I’m talking about consensual participation.”
“And why the hell would I consent to participate with you in anything like that? I have a boyfriend, y’know.”
“I did not know that,” he says, shifting forward a little. Closer. Within reaching distance now. He takes another drink from the bottle, pressing his full lips to the beveled rim of the bottle, still watching me. Still making me feel very strange, indeed. He holds up the bottle to me, offering me a drink. “What’s your boyfriend’s name?”
“Matt.” I take the bottle from Rebel, not sure I want to drink from it. I do though; I need something to take the edge of the unexpected tension from this situation. The alcohol that chases over my tongue and down my throat is liquid napalm, setting small fires one after the other as it roars through my body. I gasp, barely able to catch my breath.
Over the past few days, I’ve been thinking about Matt a lot. What the hell would he make of this situation right now? Would he be wondering why the hell I haven’t put any clothes on yet? A bolt of hot embarrassment washes through me, putting out the whiskey fire. Handing the bottle back, I get to my feet. “I should get dressed.”
“Why bother? We’ll be going to bed soon, anyway, right?” The way he says that—going to be bed soon—is full of innuendo. I hear his meaning clear as day: we’ll be going to bed together soon, anyway.
“What are you doing, Rebel? A second ago you were freaking out about a shooting that your motorcycle club is being framed for, and now all you seem to care about is flirting with me.” I tighten the towel around me, suddenly aware that there’s very little material between my naked body and his hands. “Shouldn’t you be thinking of a way to exonerate yourself and your club?”
Rebel shrugs. He gently takes the whiskey from me with one hand. With the other hand, he slowly traces his fingertips across the bridge of my foot, making me jump. I’d take a step back, but the bed is right behind me, blocking my way. Rebel softly runs up hand up over my foot and loops his fingers around my ankle. His thumb moves in small, careful circles over the swell of bone there, a soft, barely there contact that sends shivers of burning heat sparking upward, firing all over my body. “I think better when I’m distracted,” he says, his voice a low rumble in his chest.