the end—Harrietta vowed to Christ—he’d hurt worse.
Way worse.
Those boys in orange might not bother with raping some washed-up biker.
But maybe, just maybe, they would.
And when they did, maybe, just maybe, he’d think of her when some big built guy with a huge dick was driving up his ass, tearing him apart, making him bleed.
Or maybe, just maybe, he’d think on Cammy. On whoring her out. On all he made her do.
On how he got her dead.
No, Harrietta didn’t think about the fact she’d put her daughter in that position, not when the abuse started, also not when Chew breathed life into his revenge fantasy, not ever did she protect her girl.
She didn’t think on that at all.
She thought about Chew taking it up the ass and the pain he’d feel that she knew all too well and how he’d hate, absolutely hate, being made someone’s bitch.
And on that thought, like only that kind of thought could do for her, Harrietta Turnbull smiled.
Rebel
The next day . . .
Everyone had gone home and I was sitting in my director’s chair on the quiet set, script in my hand, going over my notes for the shoot the next day when my phone binged.
It was in my lap.
I picked it up.
The bold text was a bogus name I’d made up in case someone who shouldn’t see my phone saw it.
The text under it ticked me off.
I opened the message just because I was in the mood to be pissed.
Not tomorrow. I’m working on it. Give me time.
Harrietta.
Useless.
“Stupid bitch,” I muttered then jerked when my phone rang in my hand.
I also felt my heart squeeze when I saw the name of who was calling.
After swallowing mountains of their vitriol, all of it I hid from D, I really, really wished I could block them all.
Except her.
I couldn’t do it to her.
I didn’t know why.
Maybe it was because she was my mother and I held hope, since she was Diesel’s mother too, that she’d come around.
God, she would just love it if she knew I was taking a call from my director’s chair on a porn set.
“Hey, Mom,” I answered.
“Rebel, I need you to speak to your brother,” she snapped.
That snap indicated she was not calling to ask me to speak to D so she could pave the way for our mother to make things right with her son.
Nope.
It was the same old shit.
God.
Again.
This time, she was on about a family Thanksgiving.
That being the “family” she would accept for Thanksgiving.
Shit, it wasn’t like she didn’t know. She couldn’t not know.
The denial was ridiculous.
When would this end?
My back went up. “Mom—”
“Your father and Gunner are all set up to drive out to Phoenix—”
Shit, fuck, shit, fuck, shit.
That could not happen.
“Mom, do not let them do that.”
I could actually hear her lifting her chin in obstinacy when she said, “I’m at the point where I don’t mind they beat some sense into my boy.”
I blinked at the floor in front of me.
Did I hear that right?
Beat some sense into her boy?
Beat some sense into him?
“Rebel, did you hear me?” she called. “It shouldn’t be me who has to ask my son to come for Thanksgiving. He hasn’t been home in years.”
Oh God.
That would not go well.
“Mom—” I tried.
“You know,” she whispered, and I tensed at the way she did. “It isn’t like I don’t know. A mother knows.”
Oh my God!
“He needs to come home,” she carried on. “He needs to be away from that man. He needs to be with his family. He needs to talk to our pastor. I hear there’s programs—”
Oh no she didn’t.
“Shut up right now,” I snarled.
We weren’t going to go where we needed to go about fifteen years ago and do it like this.
No fucking way.
And it wasn’t me who could do this. It was Diesel’s to do. I didn’t get to do this for him.
I wanted to do this for him. I wanted to take this from him.
But it was his, and I couldn’t jump that line.
Though with Mom harping on Thanksgiving, I had to give him a heads up. I had a feeling this was going to come to a head and he had to be in the right place to deal with it.
It was time.
Long since time.
But I wasn’t going to share with my brother about programs or any of that whacked-out shit.
That’d cut D to the bone.
As usual, I had to finesse this. Take my brother’s back how I could and soften whatever blows they might land . .