Rebel (The Renegades Book 3)

Los Angeles

I buckled Penelope’s seat belt as she stared blankly ahead, taking control of her safety since she wouldn’t. She’d barely said three words since Dr. Kelley had dropped that bomb and blown Penna to bits.

Her eyes had gone dead as she’d retreated inside herself. God, I wanted to battle my way through that recovery center calling out Brooke’s name until she showed her damned face. Penelope deserved so much better than the shit hand she’d just been dealt.

I shut her door, walked around to my side of the truck, and climbed up, turning the key in the ignition and clicking my seat belt. “Ready?”

“I guess,” she answered, her voice as flat as her eyes.

How could I take her home like this? Leave her alone when her friends had zero idea what she’d just been through?

“Where do you want me to take you?”

Her eyes darted back and forth, a look of panic growing with each second that she couldn’t make up her mind. Finally, her eyes slid shut in an obvious bid to keep from crying. “I just don’t care.”

“Okay,” I said softly, clasping her hand in mine. It was crossing the line—any physical contact between us was, really. But hell, it wasn’t like I hadn’t just played her fake fiancé. I couldn’t see her in such obvious pain and do nothing.

I grabbed my phone and hit the first number on my speed dial.

“Hi, Grandma,” I said, switching to Spanish and praying Penelope didn’t know what I was saying. “I might have to miss dinner tonight.”

“You will do no such thing, Cruz. Absolutely not,” she lectured in rapid-fire Spanish instead of ordering me to switch to English.

I smiled, picturing her in our kitchen, surrounded by the apples we’d hand-painted my junior year in high school. “I’m not sure it can be helped.”

“I haven’t seen you since you rushed off weeks ago, and we never got to properly celebrate your graduation. You bring your butt home. Now.”

My gaze wavered to Penelope as she stared out the window, a world full of pain in her eyes. “Okay, but I might have to bring someone with me.”

“I have more than enough food.”

“Of course you do. Her name is Penelope.”

“Her? You’re bringing a girl home? How long until you can get here?” Her voice amped up in excitement. Shit, I’d never brought a girl home to her. Truthfully, she’d been the only consistent girl in my life since I was ten.

“About an hour,” I estimated.

“I’ll be waiting.”

“Nothing is going on between us,” I said firmly, hoping she’d take the hint.

“Of course, of course. Just bring her home.”

I said good-bye to my grandmother and put the truck in drive, taking an extra moment at the stop sign to really examine Penelope.

Her eyes were vague, her shoulders hunched in like she couldn’t possibly take another blow. She wasn’t entirely broken—but she wasn’t whole, either.

“You don’t speak Spanish, do you?” I asked her.

“French,” she answered.

“Good. I’m going to take you somewhere, okay?”

“Yeah,” she answered, still not meeting my eyes.

“Penelope,” I said softly and waited for her to look at me. She finally did, those gorgeous blue eyes swimming with more than a few unshed tears. “I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but this will be okay. You will be okay.”

“You’re right,” she answered, but my relief was short-lived. “It doesn’t feel like it.”

…

“Where are we?” she asked an hour later as we pulled up in front of my grandmother’s house near Echo Park. The neighborhood had lost much of its Cuban flair over the years, but it was better than nothing, she’d always told me.

“My grandmother’s house,” I answered before getting out of the truck and coming around to her side. Once I’d opened her door, she slid to the ground. As if I could see inside her head, I watched her compartmentalize, tossing everything that had just happened into a small box and blinking it away for a moment.

It was the same bullshit transformation she went through when the cameras came near.

“This is where you grew up?” she asked, taking in the small house that I was sure probably fit in just her living room. It resembled a cottage, with a cobblestone path and bright green bushes that bloomed in the spring.

“Yep. We moved in when I was nine and nothing much has changed.”

Her eyes skimmed over the flowers planted near the porch and the bright red shutters that stood out against the gray exterior. “I like it,” she said softly, a tiny spark of life flaring in her eyes. “It looks like a real home.”

That line told me more about her upbringing than Penna could have herself.

“Let’s introduce you,” I said, guiding her by the small of her back as we walked up the path. “A little warning, though. Grandma…she can be a little invasive. She’ll probably want to know everything about you, including your credit score.”

Penelope laughed, and the sound was fucking magical.

“Don’t worry about me. If I can handle Christmas parties with the governor of California, I can handle your grandmother.”

“You might be surprised,” I said slowly.

“You don’t call her Abuela,” she stated.

“Was that a question?” God, I loved poking at her.

She rolled her eyes at me. “I just thought…”

“Penelope Carstairs, are you making cultural judgments about me?”

She blushed a gorgeous shade of pink, but she held my gaze, not backing down. “There is no right answer to that.”

I stared her down until I couldn’t help but laugh and was rewarded with a raised eyebrow. “When we moved here, Grandma banned all Spanish from the house. She told me we were in America, and we would speak English. I wasn’t allowed to speak Spanish again until I was fluent in English. By then, she just liked being called Grandma. I think it made her feel like we’d done it—moved here, transformed ourselves.” Hidden.

We walked up the stairs, and Grandma had the door open before we made it across the small porch.

“Cruz!” she exclaimed, her arms wide open.

I stepped forward, grabbing my grandmother in a tight hug and lifting her tiny five-foot-nothing, slightly rounded frame off the ground. “I missed you,” I told her, closing my eyes as I took in her familiar perfume.

“Put me down!” She laughed, the lines around her eyes a little deeper than they had been last year.

“Have you grown?” I asked as I put her down. “I swear you feel taller.”

“English!” She backhand swatted my chest and then pointed at me like I was ten again, learning to live in America.

“Sorry,” I told Penna, who watched us with a soft smile. “I didn’t even realize I’d switched over.”

“No problem,” she answered, waving me off.

“Grandma, this is Penelope. Penelope, this is my grandmother. She’s the one who raised me, so any complaints should be filed in her direction.”

“I will keep that in mind,” she warned with a grin.

“Let’s get you inside. You look like you need a good meal,” Grandma said, ushering Penelope in the door.

The house smelled like heaven, and my eyes closed as I let out a sigh. “That smells delicious.”

“Ropa vieja,” Grandma told me with a wink as she led Penna to the living room. “I figured you’d missed it.”

“Yes, that’s a yes. Need any help?”

“Don’t even think about going into my kitchen,” she warned with a wag of her finger. “Now, Penelope, why don’t we sit and get acquainted.”

They took the couch, and I settled into the recliner, hoping my feelings would do the same and calm the hell down, or at least pick a direction.

“Your home is lovely,” Penelope told her, and the admiration in her eyes as they swept over the mismatched picture frames above the fireplace told me that she meant it.

“Thank you. I’m constantly told that the house is worth a small fortune if I would be willing to sell it, but I think I finally have it just the way I want it. Besides, I raised Cruz here.”

“I can understand that,” she said with a subtle nod, and something told me she did. She might be a little rich girl, but I was beginning to think that money was the only way she’d been spoiled. We hadn’t always had a ton, but I’d been lavished with attention. There were so many different ways to be poor.

“So what do you do for a living, young lady?” Grandma’s brown eyes narrowed slightly, and I knew the inquisition had begun.

“Grandma—”

“It’s fine,” Penna promised me. “I’m actually a senior at UCLA. I’ll graduate in June after we dock in Miami.”

I didn’t miss the non-subtle side-eye Grandma tossed at me. “So you’re on the ship with Cruz.”

“I am,” she agreed.

“You’re a student.”

“Yes, ma’am. But I also have a full-time job.”

Grandma’s eyebrows rose. “Good. Women need to be able to stand on their own. What do you do?”

“Well, I’m a professional athlete.”

Grandma’s head tilted as she openly appraised Penna’s body. I almost said something, but Penna shot me a look that told me she could handle herself.

“Swimming? Track? One of those NFL girls on the sidelines with too much showing?”

Penna’s eyes danced, and I wanted to kiss Grandma for bringing that out in her. “I’m actually a freestyle motocross rider. Well, mostly.”

“Motocross? Motorcycles?” Grandma leaned in. God, I could have watched these two all day.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So you’re a biker.”

Penelope’s eyes widened. “Not exactly. I mean, I’m not in a gang or anything.”

“Well, you are a Renegade,” I teased.

“That’s not a gang,” Penna snapped.

“Ignore him,” Grandma ordered. “He just wants to see how far he can push you before you push back.”

I laughed and was rewarded with a glare from both the women in my life. Check yourself. Penelope is not your woman. Not now. Not ever.

“She’s on TV, Grandma. And in magazines. She does crazy, dangerous things.”

“Ah, like Evel Kneival,” she said with an appreciative nod.

“Yes, ma’am,” Penna agreed.

“Well, isn’t that something. It’s good that you have a career. I’m a nurse. Been taking care of newborn babies since I was twenty-five. Gives you a purpose outside yourself. Now, I’m going to check on dinner. Cruz, why don’t you give me a hand.” She stood and brushed imaginary dirt from her slacks.

My eyes narrowed. “Didn’t you just say to stay out of your—”

“Now, Cruz,” she ordered from the doorway.

I was out of my seat instantly. “Will you be okay for a minute?” I asked Penelope.

“Yeah. Actually…” She chewed on her lower lip, and I looked away so I didn’t lean down and suck it free.

“What’s up?”

“You still have your phone turned on? I turned my plan off since I figured everyone I talk to is on the ship with me.”

“Yeah. Did you want to borrow it?”

“I kind of want to call my parents,” she whispered, her hands clasping and unclasping on her lap.

“It’s yours,” I said, and pulled it from my back pocket. “Code is 1202.”

Her eyes widened at the trust I’d just given her as she took the phone.

“I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

She nodded, and I left her sitting on my couch before I could question myself too much on why I’d just done that. I didn’t have anything to hide from her—at least on the phone—but it was still a step that didn’t need to be taken, another line crossed.

I walked into the kitchen as Grandma stirred dinner.

“Just what do you think you’re doing with that one, Cruz?” she asked, never one to beat around the bush. “She’s a student, right?” She’d switched to Spanish, so I did the same, knowing it was to keep Penna from accidentally overhearing.

“Yes,” I said, leaning back against the tile of the counters.

“Is she your student?”

“Yes.” There was no lying to this woman. I never had, I never would.

“Cruz.” She sighed in obvious disappointment.

“I met her before I even left for the ship. It was when I went to Vegas with the guys.” The kitchen was dimmer than usual, and I looked up to see one of the can light bulbs was out.

“Did you marry her?” she asked, mischief in her eyes.

“This isn’t one of your soap operas, Grandma.” I crossed the kitchen to the closet in the corner and pulled out a replacement bulb.

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll get around to it.”

“Just make me a list, and I’ll get it all done before I leave tomorrow,” I told her, already in the process of changing the one that had gone out.

“So you didn’t know she was a student?”

“Nope. I didn’t realize it until I walked into my Latin History class, and there she was.” Stunned. Perfect. Untouchable. And still somehow mine.

“So there’s nothing going on between you two?” she asked in an exaggeratedly innocent voice.

“I’m her teacher.”

“And you’d like to teach her more than history,” she said, pointing her wooden spoon at me. “I’m not blind. You look at that girl like she is the first drop of sunshine you’ve seen after a lifetime of darkness.”

“Soap operas, Grandma.”

“Truth, Cruz.”

“I’m not going to do anything that jeopardizes this. I have one shot—”

She spun, her eyes wide. “One shot to do what?”

Fuck my life. Why didn’t I shut the hell up? I took a deep breath and prepared to be eaten alive by a woman half my weight. “The ship docks in Cuba as its last stop before Miami.”

“No. I forbid it. You stay on that ship when it docks and don’t you dare step foot on that island. You understand me?”

“I promised her.”

“Now you promise me!” she snapped. I would have fired back, but the fear in her eyes stopped me cold.

“I can’t do that. But I will promise that I will take no unnecessary risks, and I’ll act only if it’s safe to do so.”

“I can’t lose you, too,” she whispered.

“You won’t,” I swore, hugging her.

She composed herself and stepped back. “Go tell your girl—student—that we’re about to have dinner.”

“Okay.”

Just before I left the kitchen, she said, “And for the record, I like her.”

I turned, my hands braced on either side of the doorframe. “Yeah. I do, too, which is half my problem.”

Walking out of the kitchen, I saw Penna in the hallway, looking at the framed pictures that lined the space. Cringing at the thought of her staring at my awkward middle school years, I got over there quickly. “Hey, dinner is just about ready. How did the phone call with your parents go?”

“Is this your mother?” she asked, blatantly ignoring my question as she looked at one of my favorite pictures.

“Yes. That was taken right after we got here.”

“Where is she now?”

“Dead. She died about ten years after this picture was taken.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

“It was a long time ago.”

“These are from when you were in the army,” she said, changing the subject again. I was learning that she liked to deflect anything that got too personal.

“What gave it away? The uniforms?” I leaned my shoulder against the wall and studied her as she examined every picture.

“Do you miss it?” She leaned closer at a picture of me in Afghanistan.

“Yes. Not the war, but I miss serving. This country gave me everything, and I like to give back what I can.”

“Ever think about getting back in?”

“Every day,” I answered honestly. “I still debate going into the reserves.”

She turned and handed me my phone. “I was right.”

“About what?”

The corners of her mouth lifted. It would have been so easy to lean forward and kiss her, so tempting to feel that rush I got only with her. But I’d already crossed about a dozen ethical lines with her today, and that was one I was determined to leave intact.

“Let’s have some dinner,” she said, walking past me.

I caught her hand. “What were you right about?”

Her gaze darted from the picture and back to me, the unmistakable flash of heat sparking there. She’d had the same look on her face in Vegas.

“You look incredible in a uniform.”

She smiled at me, and my fucking heart stopped. No, no, no. Not for you. I let her hand go before I did something stupid like pull her closer. Like back her into my childhood bedroom and pin her to the wall so I could kiss that smile off her face.

Instead, I let her walk away, for her safety and mine.

As she went into the kitchen, I rested my head against the wall and sucked in a huge breath. In that moment, it became crystal-fucking-clear. This thing between us—whatever it was—would eventually break the self-control of a saint.

And I was no saint.