Page 106 of Rebellious

Jana: As your big sister, I vote that you give him another chance. Good guys are hard to find.

Rebel didn’t respond, so Jana suspected she’d fallen asleep. Not that it mattered. She had someone else to text.

Jana: Hey, Kaia.

The chime came a moment later and Jana smiled, not wasting time reading the message.

Kaia: We can’t be friends anymore, Jana. Please don’t text me again. If you insist, I’ll change my number so you don’t have it. See you around.

Jana read the message three times before she fully processed the words. Screaming in frustration, she pitched her phone and then burst into tears.

Mortician didn’t consider himself a bitch. He faced adversity head-on, found a solution, and got the job done. It didn’t matter if it pertained to his wife and kids, his brother, his mama-in-law, Red, Meggie girl, Chester, Prez, or the club. He always had the answer.

Except…now. With Bailey in a program on the other side of the country. Hating him.

When he landed in Portland, he didn’t go straight to the club. Instead, he rode around, trying to clear his head, so fucking devastated he didn’t know if he’d ever recover. Though he confirmed Bailey checked into the facility, they wouldn’t give him any other information. She’d given Roxanne access to her healthcare but not him.

He arrived home late and needed peace and quiet, so he didn’t go to his room at the club. He went to his formerly happy home. As for his kids, his baby girl called him and asked if he wanted her to come home.

She’d sounded relieved when Mort told her to stay at Val and Zoann’s but he let it go. He and Bailey were the ones to force Harley out of the house in the first place and then refused to allow her to return.

Tipping his bottle of vodka back, he swigged deeply, wiped his mouth and laughed bitterly. Maybe if she’d been home, Pillar of Dirt wouldn’t have made those videos. Nardo Deadenberg wouldn’t have used and abused her.

Mort drank again. It was his expensive vodka, the one indulgence he allowed himself. Bailey always thought it was funny how long it took him to put in his credit card information and complete the sale.

Maybe his most recent order was the last time she’d truly laughed…? They’d been in LA over the summer and he realized he was out of his vodka there and in Hortensia. She’d actually called in Lou to press the ‘purchase now’ button.

Mort smiled at the memory, his heart hurting, his soul crushed. Roxanne kept the boys at her place tonight. She advised Mort to let them finish the school week, then she and him would sit Lou and Kaleb down and give them a watered-down version of the situation. One that didn’t include motherfucking Johnnie ruining their fucking lives.

He drank again, his head buzzing. When he walked into this empty, silent house, he’d gotten a beer, then his vodka. He’d been fine until he decided to smoke a blunt, drink a little more, and smoke another blunt. When he should’ve known better.

Grass before beer, you’re in the clear. Beer before grass, you’re on your ass.

It didn’t matter now. He’d already drank, smoked, drank again, and smoked some more. He was beyond fucked up. He was fucking tore up from the floor up.

He was…

The doorbell sounded and Mort scowled, not wanting to see anyone. Besides, between Aunt Mary and Uncle Al, he was barely in a condition to stand. He just wanted to lick his wounds and drink himself into fucking oblivion.

Tomorrow, he’d put things into perspective, remember that he and Bailey once had a very solid foundation.

Until that motherfucker cracked and left them on shaky ground.

The doorbell sounded again.

Setting his bottle on the table, Mort staggered to his feet. His stumbling didn’t surprise him. Drunk and high motherfuckers were unsteady on their fucking feet.

Whoever wanted to see him was fucking insistent because the doorbell rang again. Digger was the only motherfucker who laid on the goddamn bell like that. Currently, he was a broke motherfucker who needed to be wheeled everywhere.

Growling, he threw open the door, ready to blast his brother. Except it wasn’t him. He narrowed his eyes. “Kendall?”

She held up a picnic basket. “With food and wine.”

He snickered and swayed, tightening his hold on the door. “Don’t need no more alcohol, baby.”

“Can I come in? We can eat.”

Eat? She liked to serve algae and seashells, just all types of fucked up shit that turned his stomach. “What kind of food is in the basket?” he asked suspiciously.