Rebel (Ruthless Tendencies Series Book 3) Read online

  REBEL

  Ruthless Tendencies Series

  D.M. Burns

  Copyright @ 2020 by D.M. Burns

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locale, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  About this book

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  D.M Burns Note

  Acknowledgements

  Connect with D.M. Burns

  Rampage

  Alexandria Shay Greyson

  That first encounter with him threw me for a loop. He had an uncanny sixth sense about me. In less than five minutes he summarized my soul, scrutinized my thoughts, and solidified ownership of my heart. There were three noteworthy traits that I knew to be true. Nico Carter was…

  Hazardously Haunted.

  Irrefutably Dangerous.

  Craving Chaos.

  Those green and pale blue speckled chambers did nothing to disguise the demons inside. Beyond the stormy soul covers there is a promised reckoning of hellish proportion. But ideally, he’s my Rebel and I know his impact on my life is going to scar me, soul-deep. These were facts. Also, I knew I did not care.

  Rebel Nico Owen Carter

  After years of feeling nothing, I come to terms with the emptiness of my soulless sanctuary. My normal habitat. How can you miss the light when you’re accustomed to the dark? If you never experience it then you don’t require it, right?

  But one glance across the crowded hallway revealed a unique angel-pixie. It was like panning for gold in a undiscovered mine. Her getup did nothing to dull the shine that caught my eye.

  I Saw Her.

  The Real Her.

  Alexandria Shay Greyson is a rare gem surround by fool’s gold. That light beaming bright. Suddenly, I felt everything-sensory overload, until I didn’t.

  This book is dedicated to those selfless individuals whose sacrifices go unnoticed or untold. Your loyalty and love are rare.

  There’s peace to be found in a shared connection. Your paired soulmate will leave a unique engraving. A mark created out of love in the center of your heart, soul-deep.

  REBEL:

  A PERSON WHO RISES IN OPPOSITION OR ARMED RESISTANCE AGAINST AN ESTABLISHED GOVERNMENT OR RULER. A PERSON WHO RESIST AUTHORITY, CONTROL, OR CONVENTION. SHOWS OR FEELS REPUGNANCE FOR OR RESISTANCE TO SOMETHING.

  chapter 1 – alexandria

  six years ago

  Like all other girls at Creekside High, I saw Rebel the very first day he materialized with his Chaos family. The four of those guys together give you a sense of being overcrowded in a profoundly large auditorium with no one else in attendance but you and them. Condense and overflowing with potent male hormones in abundance. Carving out a chaos symbol deep within every working ovary without so much as a single touch. Sorta like the mark of the beast.

  Most everyone refers to them as the four horsemen of untamed chaos and I tend to agree. But Rebel… Rebel is by far the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen. His jet-black hair was groomed in a military cut except for the top. It was longer and slicked back with a glossy sheen that made me want to reach out to touch it. Test the texture between my fingers. Those hazel eyes are an ever-changing color dependent on his mood. And he’s huge just like his cousin Rage. A very stunning, intelligent but silent beast. He intrigued me from the start.

  We share third period advanced chemistry class together. I’ll never forget the day he strolled in sending the heat index up by ten degrees. All eyes were on him as he walked right up to my lab assigned seating table. He proceeded to have a silenced red-eyed stare off with my now ex-lab partner, Brax.

  Brax finally relented and voluntarily moved out of fear for his face. I wasn’t too broken up about it. The guy never helped me with our assignments, ever. He only partnered up with me so he could cheat and coast through the class. Now, Brax must earn that passing grade on his own.

  Rebel doesn’t cheat off me, no. That guy sleeps his stoned state of mind off throughout the entire period. Sometimes he even snores and I can’t help but giggle when this happens. Surprisingly, he aces every test though. I’d say that he totally ignores my existence but then again, he’s never coherent or awake. Which is fine. Most of the time I find myself staring at his beautiful onyx hair wondering what it feels like.

  Being the goth girl is my thing along with an unhealthy fascination for Rebel Carter. Disappointingly enough, I’m the only person that’s into my dark expressionless fashion statement. Not getting notice unless it’s to shock the shit out of folks happens to be my style.

  The popular crowd shuns me and makes fun of my wardrobe every chance they deem it cool, whateve’s. My priority in life is not to walk the halls displaying my tits and ass all about like a free visual peepshow. That’s what half the cheer squad is for. They have that shit covered or in their case, uncovered.

  Assholes that they are, make my relevant side tune their opinions out. Their high school popularity in life is hitting an all-time peeking point, here. That alone should depress the fuck out of them.

  My tall and skinny frame is lanky and odd. I’m praying that my body will grow into a comfortable shell that I can appreciate and soon. My white-blonde hair is a beautiful canopy of flowing silk. The color of which that everyone around me will probably appreciate when the day comes that I stop dying it midnight black.

  The chipped red nail polish I’m sporting was my rebellious way of stepping out of the goth zone temporarily. Normally it’s a nice shade of black that matches my dreadful everyday full-body opaque clothing. My high cheeks bones, pouty lips, and electric sapphire blue eyes were passed down from my mom. Those three things are by far my most favorite attributes. The mirror image resemblance is a constant reminder that she wasn’t a dream.

  Ditching my PE class is nothing new for me. My physical fitness aspirations are nonexistence and I’d rather be reading. Soaking up information by the second is my number one pursuit in this life. Getting different perspectives and takes on the world around me. It feeds my soul in ways that no classroom ever will. Face buried in a book; I pass the bleachers near the far end of the school at a leisurely pace. Trying to avoid human interaction is also my thing too. I’m good at it.

  The smell assaults me before I ever see a face. I drop the book down and crane my head around the area. My search comes to a smoking halt when I spot t
he bulked-up beast in all his hushed hulking glory. Rebel’s leaning his massive body against the back of the cement wall obscuring himself somewhat from eyeshot. Trying to conceal his temporary break for his toking ways.

  That bad boy put the Y in sexy but the S in silent. Those snug jeans and short sleeve basic black tee snugly fit his body perfectly. It’s like the material is being tried for durability stretched over those humps and lumps of muscled wealth. But he’s so much more than what the eye can see. This guy is deep.

  Rebel not only has that silent and deadly aura going on, but he also hides it well under a cloud of smoke and encases it with intellect. Similar to my choice in black clothing his darkness within comes in levels and layers. Like an elevator ride, select your floor and explore the contents at your own risk. It lives in depths of him that most miss. Those eyes are glass fixtures that I can see through, clearly. God, I need to rethink all these damn clothes, it’s hot-he’s hot. I’m burning up.

  While he enjoys a toke off his joint, those eyes are transfixed on me, bleeding out into my system. It’s unnatural. Uninvited. The green color is more prominent today. It could be the way the sun hits his face or maybe it’s the weed intake, tossup. When the corner of his mouth tips up I quickly raise my book back into place covering my face. Picking up my pace while my body flushes with heat. I can feel the splotches dotting my chest. Jesus.

  “Greyson, why do you always wear long sleeves in the dead of summer?” His voice is smooth despite his smoking ritual.

  I stop and drop my book back down turning slowly to face him. He tilts his head to the side and continues to study me. It’s like a slow dissection of my soul. It makes me uncomfortable in my own skin. Which is laughable because I’m normally always uneasy, he just ups my level of discomfort and anxiety.

  “Maybe it’s the rebel in me.” I shrug my shoulders. He smirks and nods his head yes while raising the joint to his lips. The smoke fumes roll out from between his full luscious lips. “Why do you smoke weed?”

  “It gives me a reprieve from my own thoughts.” He says.

  I’m leaning toward a chemical suppression for those demons he keeps locked away inside that membrane maze, but I keep that thought to myself. He holds his joint up offering me his shared high and I shake my head no.

  “What color is your real hair?” He asks. This newbie is all kinds of interested in my appearance.

  “Why?” I throw my hand out. I’m really interested in his give a shit. Where did it come from, huh? No one cares about anything me related, ever.

  “Curiosity.” He shrugs. “Why do you hide behind all that shit?” He waves his joint holding hand up and down the length of my body. “The all-black, head to toe covered armor and black boots is a high-pitched scream for some dark secrets, yeah?”

  “And the constant high shouts out dark demonic dreams but I don’t push for you to share your truths with me, Rebel.” I quirk a solo eyebrow at him in a challenge. This guy makes me want to become a conversationalist. Anything for insight into this Rebel way of life.

  He pushes off the cement wall and casually comes in my direction. I gulp down the anxiety bubbling up from the pit of my stomach. My heart speeds up like a freed line of racehorses sprinting from the starting gates at the derby. He stops right in front of me and I straighten my spine. I’m not real sure of my next move with this guy.

  “You wanna share secrets, angel? You first.” He whispers in a deep dark voice that I’m sure is the reason my body temperature just shot up by ten degrees. Angel? What the hell?

  “No.” I rasp out. The need to scratch my neck is only the nerve endings pulsating through my fingertips. Control that urge, Alex.

  “I see you, Alexandria Greyson.” He hits every syllable in my name. “Every last piece of beauty you’re trying so desperately to hide. I see it.” He licks those full lips then takes another hit off his rolled relief, blowing the cotton tangy clouds upward to spare my air supply.

  “Why do you care?” I whisper.

  “Why do you hide?” He pushes the question again.

  Rebel flicks the remainder of the unsmoked joint to the side without bothering to make sure of his aim. Then lightning-quick he grabs my free arm jerking one of my long sleeves up revealing my recent cuts on the inside of my forearm. Eyeballing my multiple scars like an expert doctor for destructive pore decor.

  I drop my book and rip my arm out of his hold trying frantically to pull my sleeve back into place, covering my shame. His brows crease together as he takes in my razorblade foreplay then those sharp eyes snap up and scrutinize mine, judging me.

  “Don’t touch me.” I stumble back in shock, shame, and horror, equal amounts. No, oh, God. Anyone but this guy.

  “Someone needs to. A lot.” He grabs my book off the ground and hands it over my way. “Soul deep.” His eyes see too much. I snatch it from him wishing I could disappear midair.

  “It’d do you a lot of good not to worry yourself with me, Rebel.” I tuck a lock of my dyed black hair behind my ear vaguely aware of my shaky hands and trembling voice. “Use your temporary reprieve for more important things. Like, like… Knowing that Principle Rowlane cuts through this way every day at this time to get over to the academic hall. Or maybe staying awake during lab.” I turn on my heel and all but run in the other direction away from his mute assessment of what he believes of me.

  “Thanks for the heads up. See you soon, angel Alexandria.” He calls out.

  I don’t bother to indulge him in any more idle chit chat. That’d just provoke him to strip back more layers of clothing or mental shields I have firmly in place. I want to put as much distance as humanly possible between myself and the only guy to ever get a glimpse of me, the real me. He plays by his own rules, none. That trait alone is dangerous just like him. Rebel scares me, scar deep.

  chapter 2 – rebel

  Am I a Rebel? That’s the million-dollar question, right? That’s what all the naïve and unsuspecting fucks ask me twenty-four, seven. My normal response is to chuckle and wink through my red-eyed glare. My wicked ways are not for the faint of heart. Promise you this, you won’t coerce a conversation into my mental fuckery. It’s a vile vault locked up for your own safety. Worse than a century-old haunted hospital and undoubtedly seen way more decrepit dead bodies, facts.

  Entertaining an open fucking discussion about my skeleton count and skills is a no go. The interested probing souls would surely shrivel up in a corner if they had any inkling for the twisted thoughts that filter through this mental mortuary of a mind. Expressing my feelings and thoughts will have you popping Xanax’s like there PEZ candy. Sensitive information for only me; shared with no one. Closed off from all. It’s a lonely fucking life but necessary all the same.

  There’s not one person that can comprehend or handle the truths behind that answer. But still, you ask… Am I a Rebel? I’ll tell you honestly, you bet your god damn ass I am. A wicked one of the worst kind. I’m the Rebel with a chokehold around the necks of the sick sadistically warped motherfuckers that this world inhabits. Without a doubt, if your path is that of a psychotic parasite; I’m coming for you. My kind of crazy is just slightly more capable and twisted up like a fucking pretzel at a side-show carnival circus.

  Your boy right here is the one that the government comes to for profiling guidance and hacker Houdini expertise. With a half-baked disposition, I’m the asshole that views each sordid case file one by one. Then with a few clicks of the keyboard, I can locate you too.

  Accomplishing what the fucking GBI, CIA, or FBI can’t, that’s me. Digging deep into the serially insane membranes using a simple vanilla file folder. All the while huffing and puffing it out one green bud at a time, literally. Producing results is what I do while high as all hell too.

  Let me tell you something, judge me all you want where my stash of herb comes into play. But know this, it takes a THC state of mind to scan through that kind of sinister shit and still face each day with a smile. My chemical high is a crazy cure for
sure. It keeps the mania from seeping in and eating away at my sanity. What’s left of it anyway.

  Not bragging or anything but ninety-eight percent of my predictions lead the men in black or the boys in blue to your doorstep. In my eyes, it’s a waste of taxpayers’ hard-earned dollars. But that’s every sick nut’s legal right to a fair trial, right? Once you decide to take a beautiful beating heart that’s on the sane side of living then it’s an eye for an eye to this guy. Call me crazy, it’s my opinion only.

  There are, however, a select few that I deem fit for a one on one meet and greet with me. The special fucknut freaks found at the bottom of a germ-infested gene pool. Those are the ones that I refuse to give an expert assessment on. Tossing the file back to the so-called professionals while turning my nose up. But only after I’ve memorized the details of our not-so-friendly freak of the week.

  They know what it means when I do that, fucking freebie. Leaving the cops to fuck up an arrest or violate a volatile maniac’s rights is not happening, fuck you very much. My housewarming ways are reserved for only those that I know can and will slip away overnight. A silent but slick raid from the Rebel is required, haunting manifestation. You’re welcome, motherfuckers. Call it my contribution to the red, white, and blue; good old US-of-A.

  Agent Lance Williams never brings it up when I slip a file back across the table though. It’d be in his best interest to keep it that way too, but really? What the fuck is he going say to a guy like me anyway?

  I’m their definition of a walking cyber death sentence waiting to detonate, technologically lethal, and sizably scary as fuck. Not to mention, my intellect is off the charts but with a borderline mind psychologically set up to wreak havoc at the drop of a dime. I’m capable of making you disappear without a plan in place or a roadmap for directions. Hannibal style without the sweet tooth craving for flesh or A1 dipping sauce on the side.

  For shit’s and giggles, let’s just say that I don’t wake up one morning and make that virtual timecard computer check-in. There’s going to be a lot of people that find some really upsetting shit taking place around them. The likes of which that’ll set-off a war unlike any other in history. My insurance policy preserves my sunny side up disposition.