Page 39 of Rebels & Rejects
I make the short walk over to the garage where I keep Raven safely hidden away, and goosebumps pebble along my arms when I start the engine and roll her out onto the street. I leave her running while I pull down the roller door and lock it. When I jog back to the bike, I pull on my helmet and connect my phone to the Bluetooth headset so that I can listen to the directions. As the woman’s voice comes through the earpiece, telling me to turn left onto the street, I twist the accelerator, and with a rev of the engine, I’m off.
The whole city flies past in a blur of gray. Gray buildings. Gray roads. Gray sky. Everything in Black Creek is gray. Even the people are gray, with their miserable, trudging demeanors and lack of hope and ambition. It’s like this city has sucked the color out of everything. Was it always this way? It has been for as long as I can remember, but surely Black Creek must have once been a thriving town before the gangs dug their claws into it—before The Feral Beasts destroyed any optimism the townspeople had and the Antonellis squashed us under their boots. We’ve been beaten down and pulverized for so long, none of us know any better. This life of scrounging for scraps and surviving one day to the next, without ever giving any thought to the future, is all we’ve ever known. But is simply surviving enough? What happens if we dare to dream of more? If not for ourselves, then for those we love. I don’t want this bleak city to be all Luc sees and knows. There’s an entire world out there, and most of it is a hell of a lot better than Black Creek. Doesn’t he deserve to see it? To do better for himself than end up in a dead-end job or running for some gang just to make ends meet?
I think so. I just don’t know how to make that happen for him. An education at a Black Creek school is worth jack shit, and I sure as hell don’t have the money to send him to some fancy school or college. It wouldn’t matter how many clubs I worked at or rich-scumbag-killing jobs I took, it would take years to earn that sort of cash. So for now, I have to settle for making Black Creek somewhere he can live safely, where one day he can carve out a small but promising existence for himself, and not one where he ends up dead on some street corner, caught up in a gang war he had no business being a part of.
The problem is, I’m not sure how to achieve that. Sure, I’m living the nice little secret vigilante life, killing abusive men, but that does nothing to stop the frequent gang wars that break out on the street or the overarching rule of the likes of the Antonellis, Grim Bastards, or even the Reaper Rejects. Luc deserves to leave the apartment every day and not wonder if this is the last time he’ll walk out that door. He should never have to worry if he’s going to accidentally get caught up in a shooting or if some asshole is going to come around and tear his life apart just because he can. And the only way for that to happen is if there are no more gangs in Black Creek. Ha, it’s a laughable thought. An unrealistic and impossible one, but it’s a wish all the same.
I’m barely paying attention as I zip through the streets, listening to the woman from my phone spouting directions in my ear. I’m going to be early. A journey that takes over an hour by public transport, took half that time on my bike. Once I’m near Radiant Park, I veer off course. I work my way down the gears, slowing the bike as I take in the part of the city that’s been under Reject control for the better part of a year now.
I don’t know much about them before then, but I remember when the whispers started on the street of this group of thugs who were collecting territory like it was pocket change. This part of the city was divided up amongst several small street gangs until the Rejects came along and quickly conquered all of it, claiming it as their own. By all accounts, it was a bloodbath. Six gangs demolished in six days, or something insane like that. That is, if the rumors can be believed. Once they had firmly seated themselves as the overlords of most of the southern part of the city, they seemed to slow down, and they have been taking their time picking off the last of their rivals. Apparently, the Satan’s were next on their list of targets, but no doubt the other smaller gangs will soon fall too, which will leave only the Grim Bastards and Antonellis as the Rejects' rivals.
I’m not sure if it’s because I’ve slowed the bike down or if the sun has popped out from behind a cloud, but there seems to be more color here than there was back on my street. I take my time, slowly winding along various avenues, and don’t get me wrong, most of it is the same—homeless people crowded in doorways and hookers on street corners. But there are also glaringly apparent differences. I nearly stall my bike when I come across a flower shop. A motherfucking flower shop. In Black Creek. I don’t ever remember seeing a flower shop here. People in Black Creek don’t buy flowers. We don’t have the time or energy to even stop and sniff the flowers, never mind the money to actually buy them. Yet here I am, looking at a fucking flower shop.
A woman who looks to be in her mid-to-late fifties steps out onto the sidewalk, sniffing at a large bunch of Tulips before she props them up in an oversized plant pot, displaying them just so.
A horn blares behind me, making me jump and jolting me out of my state of shock. It’s only then that I realize I came to a dead stop in the middle of the road. The asshole blares his horn again, and giving him a middle finger, I roll the throttle and speed off. This time, I go straight to the address on my maps, having seen enough of this weird twilight zone.
When the map on my phone tells me I’ve reached my destination, I slow down and pull up to the curb. Turning off the engine, I take off my helmet and cast my eyes over the run-down apartment complex. I glance at the sign sporting the name of the complex—Radiant Park—before looking back over the shabby exterior. Yeah, I don’t think that name fits. Maybe ‘Rundown Park’ or simply call it ‘Pigsty’. Both are more fitting.
I’m pretty sure this complex was intended as high-end apartments when it was first built, but now it’s as dilapidated as the rest of the city. Graffiti covers most of the brick wall, and paint is peeling off the wooden door. I think it was maybe a red color once upon a time, but now it just looks like it’s covered in rust. Or dried blood. Actually, it’s most likely blood on the door.
What I imagine was once a luscious lawn surrounding the building is now overgrown with weeds that come up to my knees. The lines marking out parking spaces in the lot have long since faded, and cracks have formed in the concrete path up to the lobby door.
A tall, iron fence, topped with wire, is all that separates the complex from the sidewalk and looking around, there isn’t a soul in sight. Shouldn’t they at least have someone manning the gate? I’m not entirely sure what I expected, but the lackluster veneer and absence of security are definitely not it.
Not hanging around, I push open the pedestrian gate and step warily onto the property. I’m still expecting someone to jump out from the bushes and attack me for setting foot on Reject property, but nothing happens, and after a few more cautious steps toward the building, my confidence builds. As I stride across the cracked concrete, I push back my shoulders and lift my chin, donning my typicaldon’t fucking mess with me, bitchexpression.
Just as I ascend the steps up to the main entrance, which I’m assuming leads into a lobby, the door is pulled open, and Oliver’s tall frame blocks the doorway. He looks like fucking sin in his combat boots and jeans, with a tight t-shirt that clings to his muscular abs and chiseled biceps. In the light of day, his features are even more breathtaking, and I have to swallow roughly, my mouth suddenly feeling dry as I drink him in.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come.” His gaze sweeps over me before glancing over my shoulder. He quirks a brow when he sees the bike but doesn’t comment on it.
“Well, you said please,” I grumble, forcing my face into a frown in an attempt to hide the physical effect he has on me. One side of his lip lifts slightly.Goddammit, if fucking butterflies don’t take flight in my chest at that simple movement.
“Come on in.” He pushes the door open wider and steps aside for me to move past him into the dark interior of the building. The place is a hive of activity, men stocking shelves behind the bar with alcohol, arranging furniture, and cleaning the place up.
“Did you just move in or something?” I ask absently, taking in the heinous, flowery wallpaper currently being stripped from the walls and the light fixtures that look like they’re from the seventies.
“A few months ago, but we haven’t had much of a chance to get it all redone. We wanted to get the fighting pit across the way set up first.”
“Red,” someone calls out, and when I turn to locate the source of the voice, Jon is bounding toward me, carrying a box in his arms. I give him a tight smile. I like the kid, but I’m feeling uncomfortably on edge surrounded by all these men, even if most of them are giving me cordial smiles or nothing more than passing glances. I’m on enemy territory right now, and regardless of how friendly they may appear, I don’t trust any of them. “How ya been?”
It’s a struggle to keep the surprise off my face. It was one thing for him to talk to me so freely when we were alone, but in front of all his gang buddies? I’ve spent very little time in gang clubhouses, but I don’t need to, to know women are rarely treated with the respect they deserve??especially not virtual strangers. In gang life, anyone who isn’t affiliated with the gang in some form is treated as an outsider, someone not to be trusted or befriended until they’ve proven themselves.
“Ehh, I’ve been good.”
His smile broadens. “Well, I’ll catch ya later, can’t let the boss man here see me slacking.” He juts his head toward Oliver, laughing freely, so it’s obviously a joke.
As he wanders off, I turn to Oliver. “Exactly how high up in the Rejects are you?”
I’d just assumed he was a low-level player. I don’t know why exactly. He just doesn’t strike me as the domineering, overly aggressive, compensating-for-his-small-dick type. The sort of bullshit posturing every other leader exudes. Now, Cain is absolutely that typical, thuggish asshole of a kingpin.
He rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck, ducking his head, almost as though he’s embarrassed, but I can’t figure out why. “I’m Cain’s second in command.”Huh, wasn't expecting that.“It’s not what you think, though.”
I don’t know what he means by that, and I deliberately don’t ask. I do not need to be getting myself embroiled in their club shit any further than I already am. I get the uneasy feeling that if I dig too deep into Oliver's life, I’ll only end up liking him more, and I can’t afford to let that happen. No gangbangers. That’s my rule, and I need to remember that around him.
He looks at me for a moment, and when I don’t ask the question he’s expecting, he changes the conversation. “We’re in the process of converting this into a bar area for everyone. Got the bar bit set up a while ago but haven’t had a chance to get the rest of it done.”
I take all of it in silently as he escorts me across the room toward a hallway that leads down the back of the building. We pass several closed doors before he knocks on one, not waiting for a response before he opens the door. I follow him into a relatively large office that somehow manages to feel suffocating with Cain’s emanating presence. Even though he’s tucked behind a desk, his essence seems to envelop the entire room, sucking all the oxygen out of it.
