Taming the Rebel

For anyone who needs to embrace their inner rebel. This one is for you.

Prologue

Tip #1

The key to survival? Well, that’s simple. It’s right between your ears.

-Wolf Wilks

It was the shittiest part of the day without question, and that was saying a lot considering the way things had been going for Rebel lately. She punched her pillow twice and swore under her breath, unable to get comfortable. Her room was just the way she liked it, dim but not dark, cool but not cold, quiet but not silent. Yet it wasn’t working. For someone consumed with death, sleep was the next closest thing, and it freaked her the hell out. So she avoided it like she did fast food, succumbing only when it was a matter of survival—something she took very, very seriously.

Yeah, Rebel could give you the stats of the number one cause of death—heart disease—to the number of people who died each year from almost any other cause. Maybe it was because she lost one of her dads when she was young, or the fact that she was a horror-movie fanatic, or because she had a photographic memory. Whatever the reason, her brain was a pool of random death facts, like:

Hot dogs kill 70 children each year.

Bathtubs: 340 people.

Riding lawnmowers: 95.

Vending machines: 13.

Shopping on Black Friday: 550.

This was why she always packed her lunch, preferred showers, lived in a city townhouse, and only shopped online. Though she really wasn’t afraid so much as wanting to be prepared. You know, just in case.

But the statistic that most concerned her was the 10,000 people diagnosed with broken-heart syndrome every year. Yep, it’s a thing. You can die from heartbreak…literally. Researchers can’t be sure just how many of those 10,000 actually perish, but the worst part? There’s no cure. Her father was almost one of the statistics, which could explain why—in addition to hot dogs and baths—she also swore off love long ago.

Of course, there was the thing with that guy earlier this year, but she chalked it up to a momentary lapse of judgment. And that particular relationship’s brutal end only reinforced her original vow to stay single. Chicks before dicks was her motto.

Dad wasn’t quite so pessimistic. He even tried to combat Rebel’s long-standing compulsion by helping her focus on survival rather than death and heartbreak. When she was ten, he gave her Wolf Wilks’s Guide to Surviving Any Disaster. It was a gift before her first year at sleep-away camp to ease her nerves—and provide entertainment. The two had watched Wolf’s adventure show every Tuesday night, oohing and ahhing over the crazy crap he’d get himself into as he traveled to remote areas across the globe. Wolf’s guidebook didn’t disappoint, and it appealed to her macabre sensibilities as well—the Surviving Any Type of Wound chapter was graphic, grisly…and one of her favorites.

If only he provided tips on fighting sleep deprivation.

Rebel stretched out on the king-size bed her dad insisted on buying her when she was nine and couldn’t make it through the night without falling on the floor. She punched her pillow a few more times before looking at her phone, which announced it was three-effing-a.m. Shit, this was getting serious. No more messing around. If she was to be on her A-game tomorrow, she needed rest, so she closed her eyes, slowed her breathing, and prayed for morning, clinging to Wolf’s book like it was a blankie or teddy bear. She may have even stroked the broken binding once or twice. It was a little pathetic, but the book—the stupid, tattered, forest-green hardcover with the gold embossed script—had become her security, her Bible, her basic how-to guide to life.

That first year at summer camp, the book helped her navigate everything from recognizing venomous snakes to dealing with the mean girls in the bunk next to hers. But the most important survival tip Wolf taught her was surprising, mainly because it was so simple. It wasn’t about being the toughest, or fastest, or even most prepared. And it had nothing to do with skills like being able to fashion a shelter out of a chip clip, leaves, and bubble gum, though that would be really helpful if she ever found herself stranded. No, during a life-and-death situation, it all came down to attitude and mental ability. Didn’t matter what type of disastrous situation you encountered—fire, flood, high school, zombie apocalypse—because once you’ve lost your will, you’ve lost. See? Simple.

The book was so effective, Rebel put it to use when she came home to the city. Because, after all, her school was a freaking danger zone, and she could use all the help she could get. So Rebel and Wolf became the best of friends, and where he didn’t get it quite right, she’d add in some of her own ideas in the margins. Like Tip # 6 said, be adaptable.

Funny, as sleep finally pulled her under that night, she had no idea how the book would fail her in the month ahead—which was pretty stupid on her part, considering the source. Wolf Wilks was killed in a bear attack earlier that year (one of four unlucky souls).

Unfortunately, her own demise would not come quite so quick…

Chapter One

Wolf Wilks’s Survival Tip #5:

When life gives you lemons, make some good shit to drink with them.

Rebel

Yes, she said into the phone, keeping her voice low so her dad wouldn’t overhear the conversation. "A male stripper, preferably of the Magic-Mike variety. Hot and jacked." She curled her fingers into a tight fist and bit down on the fleshy skin so she wouldn’t laugh. She’d come up with some good pranks over the years, but this one might just push her into legendary status. Yeah, what Rebel lacked in useful skills like math, or writing, or even music, she more than made up for in the art of revenge.

And though she might not be around to see her latest scheme unfold, the biggest dick to ever grace the fine city of Atlanta would certainly not forget her while she was gone. At least not anymore.

That was the worst-case scenario. She still had time to turn this thing around.

A sexy football player? she repeated to the woman on the other line, giving herself a fist bump in the bathroom mirror. Yes, yes, that’s perfect. Let me give you my credit card number.

Rebel finished her business and beelined to the kitchen for some coffee. Her time was running out, she knew that. And if she didn’t get her way, if she couldn’t be convincing enough, she would not only miss Justice Brody’s strip-o-gram during summer football practice, she would be without her life’s essentials for more than a month, which is why she had to get her fill before she left. Like this cup of freshly ground gourmet coffee—a roast that Dad had made especially for her. Sumatra with a touch of hazelnut and raspberry.

She breathed in the sweet, nutty fragrance and sighed. She couldn’t start her day without it and blamed her father for that. They’d shopped at every organic store and farmer’s market before she could walk and regularly frequented all of the city’s it restaurants so Dad could recreate the recipes at home. It was how they bonded, and by age six, Rebel was a full-fledged foodie. Her sophisticated palate would make even Jamie Oliver proud. Though at the moment all she cared about was getting the caffeine into her bloodstream as quickly as possible, especially after skipping last night’s beauty rest for The Walking Dead marathon while she stuffed her face with sushi. Like she said, essentials.

This morning, she spent her remaining hours at home planning a summer full of surprises for Justice Brody. From the practice-field entertainment, to embarrassing deliveries and social media pranks, it was all taken care of. She might be stuck in the wilderness for the next month, but her name would live on. She spent exactly $241.87, half of her savings, to make sure of it.

Worth. Every. Cent.

Hey, roadie, Dad called from her bedroom. Are you going on tour with a band or to summer camp?

She took a soothing sip from her mug and rolled her eyes before joining him. Some days, he really tried her patience.

In her room, she looked on as Dad riffled through her drawers, and that was almost as mortifying as what she had in store for Justice. Her perfectionist of a father didn’t trust her packing, so he was checking and re-checking her bags to be sure she didn’t miss anything. And he wondered why she was so neurotic.

Don’t you have any T-shirts that aren’t black? He flipped through a pile of her clothes on the bed. Or don’t have some obscure band name on them? You’re going to roast at camp.

She didn’t say a word.

Rebel had no trouble living up to her name. She rebelled against everything. Girly clothes, lace, and pink? Na-uh. Weekends shopping with friends and talking about boys? Try again. Binge watching Pretty Little Liars? No. Just…no. Whatever was expected of her, she usually did the opposite. Her other motto (she had a few) was: my way, or the highway. Yep, she was a badass with a capital B.

So if anyone had witnessed the current scene in her bedroom, she would’ve died. Because her very bad ass was on its way to summer camp. And her daddy was packing her bag!

Crap, it’s now or never.

I was thinking about skipping camp this year, she finally said, unpacking the suitcase her father was filling with her favorite band tees. For every one shirt he added to the pile, she pulled two out. All that time in the sun? Not a good idea. Do you want me Botox-dependent by the time I’m twenty?

Botox-dependent? He cocked his head, raising his eyebrows. Don’t worry, I packed the sunscreen.

"Don’t you know sunscreen actually causes cancer now? she quipped. I read—"

Rebel. He interrupted before she could tell him about a recent sunscreen-related death.

Trevor, she mimicked his tone, and though he tried to hide it, the side of his mouth turned up in a tiny smirk. Yet he kept stuffing her suitcase.

Over the next several minutes, they continued the stupid little dance—packing and unpacking. And that was fine with her. She could dig in and hold her own with the best of them.

You’re going, Dad finally said, tugging the Girlpool shirt from her hands.

No, I’m not. She pulled back, and a little tug-of-war ensued…until he made one last yank of the cotton.

He won.

Actually she let him, because, hell, he looked absolutely pitiful. And that was so not his M.O. Nerdy? Maybe. Hipsterish? Sure…though his black-rimmed glasses and courier bag were used more out of necessity than fashion. Point was, Trevor Hart, one of the top restaurateurs in A-town, was always put-together. Younger than the majority of Rebel’s friends’ parents, he had a certain style that always had people staring—especially her girlfriends and their mothers. Her pops was somewhat of a hottie, not that he had any clue.

Today? Not so much.

He was going for more tortured-artist-meets-homeless fashion than the hot-urban-dad look she’d become accustomed to, and it really put her on edge. His short brown hair was far from its usual expertly disheveled state. In fact, ew, it was seriously matted down with what she suspected was actual man-made grease and not salon products. And rather than his stylish weekend wear, he paired stained sweatpants with a ratty old jersey that had so many holes in it, she’d witnessed an unfortunate—and rather unsettling—nip slip while he was making the coffee a few hours earlier.

How could she leave him like this?

Plus, Rebel wasn’t exactly thrilled about the idea of going to camp anyway. She’d really outgrown it two years ago but hadn’t had the heart to tell her dad. This year, she only agreed to the ridiculous plan because she thought he needed space to get his new restaurant up and running. Well, that and seeing Aubrey. Her heart ached just thinking about her friend. But now? Forget it. Dad needed her more.

But Dad— She began to frame her argument. As long as she remained calm and spoke with conviction, she could get him to agree to just about anything. It was her superpower.

Dad nothing, he interrupted again, falling into some sort of lazy parental speak. Well, that was new, but she realized it was just the pain talking. Though she worried that if she didn’t watch it, the next words out of his mouth would be, because I said so, and then the entire conversation would be a lost cause. Rebby, he continued. I need you to go and do this. It’s important to me.

She failed to see his point. After all, he was city through and through, and probably would’ve been happier with her enjoying the arts this summer—seeing plays, spending time in museums, or rapping along to Hamilton in her room—instead of kayaking across some wooded lake miles away from civilization. It had been all fine and dandy when she was a kid, but at this age, she had a certain lifestyle. And camping in the woods would definitely cramp it.

Dad. She stopped him and his busy work, gently placing her hand on his. You shouldn’t be alone. Not after Stephen. Yes, she knew it seemed opportunistic to mention his breakup when she was trying to get out of something, but she really was worried about him. Her dad was the only family she had, and anyone who messed with him would answer to her.

Like Stephen’s son, Justice Brody. Aka the dick.

Hey, now. He gripped her hands and gave them a little squeeze. I’m supposed to be the parent here, remember? The father takes care of his offspring, not the other way around.

Rebel raised a brow and said a silent, really?

Make that demon spawn. He nudged her away from the suitcase and resumed packing. "Yes, you’ve been taking care of things on the home front lately. I admit that. And I appreciate the shopping, and organizing, and reminding me to send out bills so our air-conditioning and lights stay on. We’re a team, and I know you always have my back, just as I’ll always have yours. But this is different. There are lines that have to be drawn, and I don’t need my daughter picking me up because my boyfriend dumped