Page 3 of Rebel (Devil’s Boneyard MC #14)

Rebel

One Month Later

I leaned against the wall near the bar, nursing my whiskey and watching the usual Friday night chaos unfold. The Devil’s Boneyard clubhouse pulsed with life around me -- half-naked women draping themselves over patched members, Prospects hustling drinks, the bass from the speakers vibrating through the floorboards. Then she walked in, pushing the door open with more force than necessary, like she needed everyone to know she wasn’t sneaking in. The metal hinges had protested with a squeal that somehow cut through the roar of Guns N’ Roses blasting from the speakers. For a split second, a few heads turned -- then most went back to their business. Not mine. I kept watching.

Strawberry-blonde hair, fierce blue eyes, and a don’t-fuck-with-me stride that parted the crowd like Moses and the Red Sea. Something electric snapped in the air, and I knew my quiet night had just gotten a hell of a lot more interesting.

She stood there in worn jeans, combat boots, and a leather jacket that had seen better days. Not trying to show skin like the club girls but somehow commanding more attention. Her eyes scanned the room with military precision, taking stock of every exit, every threat. I recognized that look. Had worn it myself once.

The clubhouse wasn’t much to look at. Worn hardwood floors bearing cigarette burns and knife marks that told stories of parties past. The walls were covered in a collection of road signs, license plates, and probably a bit too much Harley-Davidson memorabilia. The lighting was shit -- dim yellow bulbs -- but it hid the stains well enough.

She wrinkled her nose, probably at the cocktail of smells -- stale beer, motor oil, leather, sweat, and the unmistakable scent of sex. Her shoulders tensed as two hang-arounds brushed past her, but she stood her ground. Didn’t flinch. Interesting.

Charming sat at his usual table in the corner, silver-threaded hair catching the light as he nodded at something Havoc was saying. Even from across the room, you could feel his presence. His years as president had that effect. Men unconsciously straightened when he looked their way, women’s voices dropped to deferential tones. Not out of fear -- though plenty feared him -- but out of the kind of respect that can’t be demanded, only earned.

I watched her clock him immediately. Smart girl. In a room full of predators, she’d identified the alpha in seconds. Her eyes narrowed slightly, assessing, calculating. But she didn’t approach. Instead, she made her way to the bar, keeping her back to the wall, ordering something I couldn’t hear over the music.

“Who’s the new blood?” Chaos appeared beside me, beer in hand, voice unnecessarily loud as usual.

“Don’t know yet,” I said, not taking my eyes off her. “But I’m about to find out.”

“She looks like she’d cut your dick off for saying hello wrong.” He grinned, obviously considering this a challenge rather than a warning.

“Then I better say it right.” I drained my whiskey and set the glass down with a decisive clink .

Across the room, one of the club girls -- a blonde with tits that defied gravity and the IQ of a doorknob -- was trying to chat her up. Probably recruiting for the stable, or assessing if she would be a rival. The strawberry blonde’s expression had gone from cautious to thunderous. Time to intervene before something ugly happened.

I crossed the floor in long strides, noticing how several of the brothers were now watching with idle interest. New female faces always drew attention, especially ones that didn’t fit the typical groupie mold.

“Tiffany,” I said to the blonde, not bothering with pleasantries, “I think Java’s looking for you.”

She pouted, those silicone lips forming a perfect bow. “I’m just being friendly, Rebel.”

“Be friendly elsewhere.” My tone left no room for argument.

She huffed but retreated, her six-inch heels clicking against the hardwood. I turned to the newcomer, close enough now to see the freckles scattered across her face and the tension in her jaw.

“The recruitment pitch gets old fast,” I said, not bothering with introductions yet. “You looking for someone specific, or just lost?”

Her eyes -- startlingly blue up close -- locked onto mine. “Do I look like the type that gets lost?”

Southern accent. Georgia, maybe. And an attitude I could feel from three feet away.

I smirked. “No, you look like the type that walks into a biker clubhouse alone on purpose. Which means you’re either crazy or have a death wish.”

“Or I can handle myself.” Her hand shifted slightly, drawing my attention to the slight bulge under her jacket. Carrying. Interesting.

“I don’t doubt it.” I gestured to the bartender for two more drinks. “But even the best fighters might think twice about a thirty-to-one ratio.”

The corner of her mouth twitched -- not quite a smile, but close. “Thirty? I counted fourteen, and half of them are too drunk to stand straight.”

I laughed, genuinely surprised. “You military?”

Something darkened in her expression. “Was.”

The bartender slid two whiskeys toward us. I pushed one her way. “I’m Rebel.”

She eyed the drink suspiciously. “Original.”

“Says the girl who hasn’t given her name at all.”

She picked up the glass, sniffed it, then took a small sip. Testing. “Rio.”

“Like the city?”

“Like the river. It flows where it wants to.”

I raised my glass in acknowledgment and took a swallow, feeling the burn hit my throat. “So what brings you to our humble establishment, Rio who flows where she wants to?”

Her eyes flicked around the room again, lingering on a group of Prospects playing pool. “Just passing through. Heard this was where the action is in this shithole town.”

“And what kind of action are you looking for?” I kept my tone neutral, but we both knew what the question implied in a place like this.

She met my gaze head-on, challenge sparking. “Not the kind you’re thinking.”

“You’d be surprised what I’m thinking.”

A commotion near the door drew our attention. Two Prospects escorting a belligerent drunk outside, his protests lost in the music. Rio’s hand had drifted back toward her concealed weapon, her body tensing for trouble.

“Relax,” I said, stepping slightly closer. “Just the usual Friday night housekeeping.”

“I don’t relax in places I don’t know with people I don’t trust,” she said, but her hand dropped back to her side.

I studied her for a moment -- the way she held herself, alert but not skittish. Dangerous but controlled. “Smart policy.”

Across the room, Charming’s gaze connected with mine, one silver eyebrow raised in silent question. I gave a subtle nod. Nothing to worry about. Yet.

“Your President’s watching,” Rio said without turning around. The observation impressed me -- she’d maintained awareness of the room without being obvious about it.

“He notices everything,” I confirmed. “Especially strangers with hidden weapons.”

She took another sip of whiskey, longer this time. “Should I be worried?”

“Depends on why you’re really here.”

The lights caught the angles of her face, highlighting then shadowing the determination etched there. Up close, I could see the faded bruise near her temple, almost healed but still telling a story she probably wouldn’t share. Of course, with the attitude she seemed to carry with her, it wouldn’t surprise me to discover she’d been in a bar fight.

“Maybe I just needed a drink and a break from the road,” she said, but we both knew there was more to it.

I leaned against the bar, deliberately relaxing my posture. “We both know there are easier places to get a drink.”

“Easier isn’t always better.”

“No,” I agreed, feeling something shift between us -- not quite trust, but a mutual recognition. “It rarely is.”

The music changed, something with a heavy beat that vibrated through the floorboards and rattled the glasses behind the bar. Around us, the party atmosphere intensified -- women grinding against leather-clad men, voices growing louder to compete with the music, the smell of weed joining the already complex bouquet of the room.

Rio didn’t flinch, but her fingers tightened around her glass. Not comfortable, but determined not to show it. Interesting woman.

“You have somewhere to stay tonight?” I asked, surprising myself with the question.

Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Because it’s going to get a lot louder and a lot drunker in here as the night goes on. And while I’m sure you can handle yourself, even rivers need to rest somewhere.”

For a moment, I thought she might tell me to fuck off. Instead, she finished her whiskey and set the glass down. “I’ve got my truck outside. I’ll find a motel.”

“The only motel in town with openings rents by the hour and has a bedbug problem.” I straightened up from the bar. “I’ve got a spare room. Clean sheets. Door locks from the inside.”

“Why would you offer that to someone you just met? Someone carrying a gun, no less.”

I shrugged. “Call it professional courtesy. Or maybe I’m just tired of watching you calculate escape routes instead of enjoying your drink.”

Something like surprise flickered across her face, quickly masked. “That obvious, huh?”

“Only to someone who’s done the same.” I set my empty glass down. “No strings. You can leave whenever. But at least you’ll get some sleep without one eye open.”

She studied me for what felt like a full minute, those blue eyes seeing more than I was comfortable with. Finally, she nodded. “If I agree and you try anything, I’ll put a bullet in you before you clear your zipper.”

I grinned, strangely delighted by the threat. “Noted. Just need to make a stop first.”

I steered Rio through the thickening crowd, my hand hovering near the small of her back but never touching. The party had kicked into high gear -- shots flowing, music cranked, inhibitions dropping with every passing minute. She moved like a soldier behind enemy lines, hyperaware and tightly wound. The brothers we passed gave us space, curious eyes following but mouths staying shut. They knew better than to push when I had that look on my face. And I definitely had that look.

“Where are we going?” Rio asked, her voice just loud enough to carry over the heavy bass.

“To meet the President.” I nodded toward Charming’s corner. “Protocol.”

She stiffened slightly. “I don’t need an audience.”

“Not an audience. A courtesy.” I leaned closer, speaking near her ear to be heard. “You’re carrying in his house. He deserves to know who you are.”

The back half of the clubhouse was marginally quieter, the thrum of conversations replacing the worst of the music’s assault. The lighting was better too.

Charming watched our approach with those penetrating eyes that had assessed threats and opportunities for longer than I’d been alive. At sixty-three, he might have been going silver, but nothing about him suggested weakness or decline. Beside him, Havoc stood sentinel, the Sergeant-at-Arms’ weathered face and vigilant posture broadcasting his role without a word needed.

“Charming,” I said, stopping at a respectful distance from the table. “This is Rio. She’s passing through.”

Charming’s gaze shifted from me to her, taking in everything from her stance to the concealed weapon in one practiced sweep. “Armed visitors usually introduce themselves first.” His tone wasn’t accusatory -- more amused than anything.

“Wasn’t planning on a meet and greet,” Rio said, chin lifting slightly. “Just a drink.”

Havoc’s eyebrow ticked up at her direct response. Most people showed more deference their first time in front of the club’s leadership.

Charming’s mouth curved into a half-smile. “Yet here you are.” He extended his hand across the table. “Welcome to the Devil’s Boneyard, Rio.”

She hesitated only a moment before shaking it, her grip firm. “Thanks for the hospitality.”

“Rebel showing you around?” Charming asked, though his eyes flicked to me with the real question.

“I offered her my spare room for the night,” I said. “The Cherry Bomb Motel isn’t fit for rats, let alone guests.”

Havoc snorted. “That dump should’ve been condemned a decade ago.”

Rio glanced between the three of us, clearly assessing the dynamic. “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t want to impose.”

“No imposition,” I said, then added for Charming’s benefit, “She’s military. Former.”

Something in Charming’s expression shifted -- a subtle recognition. Many of our members had military backgrounds. It created an unspoken bond, regardless of which branch or when you served.

“Marines myself,” Havoc said. “Long time ago now.”

Rio nodded but didn’t elaborate on her own service. The tension in her shoulders spoke volumes though.

“How long you planning to stay in town?” Charming asked, signaling to a Prospect who materialized with fresh drinks for everyone.

“Just passing through,” Rio said, accepting the whiskey but not drinking yet. “Heading east.”

“No destination in particular?” His tone was conversational, but I knew Charming never asked casual questions.

Rio’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Does it matter?”

“Only if you want it to.” Charming leaned back, completely at ease despite the edge in her voice. “We’re particular about who passes through our territory. Especially those carrying.”

“I’m not looking for trouble,” she said. “Or business. Just a place to rest before moving on.”

Havoc and Charming exchanged a look I couldn’t quite interpret.

“Rebel’s vouching for you,” Charming finally said. “That counts for something. Enjoy your stay, however brief.”

The dismissal was polite but clear. Rio seemed to relax marginally, taking her first sip of the whiskey -- much better quality than what we’d had at the main bar.

I guided her away from the President’s table toward a quieter alcove near the back, where the music was muffled enough for conversation without having to shout. A couple of the older members nodded as we passed, their expressions neutral but observant.

“That seemed important,” Rio said once we were relatively private.

I shrugged. “Just how things work. Territory, respect, chain of command.”

“Military without the uniforms.” Her voice had a bitter edge.

“Something like that.” I studied her over the rim of my glass. “You didn’t stay in long.”

Her expression shut down instantly. “No.”

“Bad discharge?”

“Medical.” The word sounded like it had thorns.

I let the silence stretch, giving her space to elaborate if she wanted to. When she didn’t, I nodded. “None of my business anyway.”

“That’s right, it’s not.” She took another drink, then sighed. “Sorry. Touchy subject.”

“Figured that much.” I leaned against the wall, deliberately casual. “Look, I didn’t bring you here for any other reason -- I’m impressed by you. Not trying to recruit you, sleep with you, or pump you for information.”

She tilted her head slightly, those blue eyes searching my face for deception. “Why are you impressed? You don’t know me.”

“I know you walked into a biker clubhouse alone, armed but not threatening, and didn’t back down when challenged. That says something about your character.”

“Or my stupidity,” she muttered.

I chuckled. “Maybe both.”

Around us, the party continued. I’d had every intention of just introducing her and walking out. Hadn’t counted on the conversation lasting as long as it had. Across the room, Chaos was entertaining a group with some wild story, his arms gesturing broadly as his audience laughed. The club girls circulated, some working the room for potential customers, others already paired off with members or hang-arounds. Through the doorway to the main bar, I could see more Prospects keeping order, ensuring the growing rowdiness didn’t evolve into actual problems.

Rio watched it all with the same careful attention she’d shown earlier, though her posture had relaxed somewhat. The whiskey probably helped.

“How long were you in?” I asked, steering back to safer ground. As much as I wanted to get her out of here, I wondered if she needed this bit of chaos a little longer.

“Two years.” She stared into her glass. “Signed up at eighteen. Out by twenty.”

I nodded, not pushing for details. “Army?”

She stared at me, but didn’t deny it.

“They taught you to handle yourself?”

“Some.” Her mouth tightened. “Life taught me the rest.”

From the corner of my eye, I noticed Havoc watching us, his conversation with Charming continuing but his attention divided. The Sergeant-at-Arms didn’t miss much, especially potential security concerns. But his expression wasn’t hostile -- more evaluating than anything else.

“Your club seems… organized,” Rio observed. “Different than what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“More chaos. Less discipline.” She nodded toward where a Prospect was quietly removing an overly intoxicated hang-around. “You run a tight ship.”

“Charming does,” I corrected.

A loud crash from the main room drew both our attention. Someone had knocked over a table of drinks, and the resulting commotion had a few tempers flaring. Rio’s hand instinctively moved toward her weapon again, her body tensing for trouble.

“Easy,” I said quietly. “Happens every Friday. No one’s shooting up the place.”

Sure enough, Havoc was already moving in that direction, his presence alone enough to defuse the situation before it escalated. The guilty parties began cleaning up, chastened looks on their faces.

Rio exhaled slowly, but the wariness hadn’t left her eyes. “I should go.”

“Because of a spilled drink?”

“Because I don’t belong here,” she said bluntly. “This is your world, not mine.”

I studied her face -- the weariness beneath the defiance, the shadows under her eyes suggesting she hadn’t slept properly in days, maybe weeks.

“My spare room offer still stands,” I said. “Clean sheets, and like I said, door locks from inside and no questions asked.”

She frowned. “Why would you do that for a stranger?”

“Because you look like you haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks. And because we take care of our own.”

“I’m not one of yours,” she countered.

“Military,” I reminded her. “Different branches, different wars maybe, but same foundation.”

Something in her expression cracked, just for a second -- a glimpse of raw vulnerability quickly masked. “It wasn’t combat that got me discharged.”

I waited, giving her space to continue or retreat.

She drained her glass and set it down. “Two men in my unit thought a female soldier was fair game. Drugged me. Did what they wanted.” Her voice was flat, clinical, like she was reading a report. “By the time the dust settled, they ended up in the custody of the MPs while waiting for a hearing, and I had a medical discharge.”

The anger that flashed through me was immediate and visceral. Not pity -- she wouldn’t want that -- but the kind of cold fury that demanded retribution. I kept my expression neutral with effort.

“Those men still breathing?” I asked, my tone matching her matter-of-factness.

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “Last I checked. Military justice isn’t always just, but it’s also not always swift. I don’t know if they’re dragging things on for a reason, or they’re just backlogged.”

I nodded, understanding more than she probably realized. “The spare room comes with no expectations, Rio. Just a secure door and a night of peace.”

She looked around the clubhouse once more, her gaze lingering on the various members and women, the exits, the potential threats. I could almost see her weighing her options, calculating risks against her obvious exhaustion.

“One night,” she finally said. “I’m leaving at first light.”

“Your call.” I straightened from the wall. “My place is down the road from here. You can follow me.”

“If this is a trap --”

“It’s not,” I cut her off. “But you can keep your weapon, your suspicions, and whatever else makes you feel safe. I’m offering a room, not demanding your trust.”

Something shifted in her expression -- not quite relief, but perhaps the closest thing to it she could manage. She nodded once, decisively.

“All right.”

As we moved through the crowd toward the door, I caught Chaos watching us, his eyebrows waggling suggestively. I shot him a look that promised retribution later. Havoc nodded slightly as we passed his table -- acknowledging the situation but trusting my judgment.

Outside, the cool night air was a relief after the hot press of bodies inside. Rio took a deep breath, some of the tension visibly leaving her shoulders.

“Better?” I asked.

“Different,” she corrected. “Not necessarily better.”

I laughed. Something told me Rio didn’t find many things “better” -- just different kinds of challenging. As she followed me toward my bike, I couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever storm had blown her into our clubhouse was just getting started.

And for reasons I couldn’t quite name, I was looking forward to the thunder.