Long Live the Rebel Read online

  Long Live the Rebel

  E.L. Irwin

  Blue Tulip Publishing

  www.bluetulippublishing.com

  Copyright © 2019 E.L. Irwin

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  LONG LIVE THE REBEL

  Copyright © 2019 E.L. IRWIN

  ISBN: 978-1-946061-34-8

  Cover Art by Jena Brignola

  Formatting by Jill Sava, Love Affair With Fiction

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  FRONT MATTER

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ALSO BY E.L. IRWIN

  For everyone who bravely stands in the gap for our safety,

  for everyone who wears a uniform or pins on a badge,

  and for Wade,

  we love you and are so thankful for you.

  Greater love hath no man than this,

  that a man lay down his life for his friends.

  John 15: 13

  PROLOGUE

  Ryler Dean paused at the door, swallowing – his throat tight against the strong scent of disinfectant. His gaze sought the withered and wasted man lying in the hospital bed. He watched the slow and labored rise and fall of his chest, heard the sound of his breath rattling loudly in his lungs. The only other sounds in the room were the beeping of the machines as they monitored the slow and steady process of death.

  Ryler gritted his teeth, shrugged his shoulders, and stepped into the room. Softly, he pulled a chair closer to the bed, careful not to disturb any of the various tubes and wires flowing in all directions. As quiet as Ryler was, the man opened his eyes. Dark brown eyes met his own deep blue-gray, and despite the pain and the drugs the old man had to be experiencing, those brown eyes were alert. Of course they’d be. Jake no doubt wanted to know if Ryler had been successful.

  Jacob T. Daniels had been like a father to him for a good portion of his life. Jake had taught him almost everything there was to being a man. Ryler wanted and needed to say so much to him, but he didn’t have the words. Words had never come easy to Ryler. He was more a man of action, quiet, but observant, always looking out for those around him. He’d done his best to care for the old man over the last two years that Jake had been battling this disease. He’d watched as the cancer had slowly worked its way through the older man’s body, deteriorating it, wasting it, and tearing it down until Jake was hardly more than a skeleton in sagging skin.

  It’d been one of the hardest things Ryler had ever had to go through – and that was saying a lot.

  “How’d it go?” Jake wheezed, coughing and choking to get the words out. “Were we successful? Did they get it?”

  Ryler ground his teeth, refusing for the old man to see his tears. Not because he was ashamed to cry in front of Jake, but rather because it would make Jake uncomfortable to be cried over. Before Jake could go any further, Ryler gave him a smile. “Yeah, Jake. She got it. And, before you ask, yes, I got a confirmation from her agent, Leslie Simeon, that it was received. I also got a confirmation that Simeon’ll be in contact with her within the week. And that I’d hear definitively one way or the other what the outcome will be. So, you have nothing to worry about.”

  Jake nodded, his eyes watering with his emotion. “Thanks, Rye,” he rasped.

  “Sure, Jake. No problem. Everything is taken care of. There isn’t anything else for you to worry over. All you need to do is rest.”

  “I’m thankful, Rye so thankful. I’ve made a provision for you in the will – I told you that, right?”

  “Yeah, Jake, you did. Don’t worry about me. Don’t even worry about her. She doesn’t deserve you.”

  “She doesn’t—” Jake coughed, his entire body jerking with the efforts. “—doesn’t even know about me.”

  Ryler did his best to hide his agitation, tried to remain calm and relaxed, but Jake knew him too well and saw through his smokescreen. “Don’t blame her, Rye. She doesn’t know… She just doesn’t know… Promise me, Rye. Prom—" He coughed again then needed a drink to help clear his throat.

  Ryler couldn’t put him through any more, so he quickly, gently took Jake’s frail hand, stained deep blue from bruising, and held it. “I promise, Jake. I promise to make her feel welcome — if she comes — and to watch over her and help her out any way I can. I promise.”

  Jake sighed as his body relaxed; he gave Ryler’s hand a mild squeeze, hardly any pressure in it at all. Then he smiled and closed his eyes.

  CHAPTER ONE

  What the French Toast

  “Oh, shut the front door.” Standing in the large foyer of the comfortable, beach-view home where I lived on Ocean Drive, I shook the letter in my hand and brought it closer to my face to read again. Thinking illogically, that if I looked closer, it might not say what I thought it would say. A second reading only confirmed what I’d read the first time, which was shocking the heck out of me to the point that I almost felt dizzy. I mean, what the french toast was this? The blood pumped swiftly through my veins, and the adrenaline rush was making the room sway.

  Focus, I ordered myself. Calm down and just breathe.

  Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. And again.

  Okay. All right. I was better. Letting my eyes travel around the foyer, taking in the large cream-colored tiles, the milky blue walls, the tall windows, I settled myself. This, all of this, everything before me, was known. Comforting. My body followed my gaze, and I spun slowly where I stood. Far out, across the street, past the dunes, I could see the surf crashing on the beach. This view, the ocean, was always comforting to me.

  It had been sheer good fortune that I found this place nearly four years ago. It wasn’t easy to find living accommodations on Coronado Island near San Diego. But the elderly woman who’d owned the place hadn’t liked living alone, and hadn’t wanted it to go to waste as she had plenty of room, so she’d decided to rent a few of the bedrooms out. I was one of five lucky tenants living here with her. The first was a quiet, middle-aged man who tended to make rather odd and awkward advances toward me. Paul was his name — nice guy — just really awkward and odd. He often smelled faintly of those clove cigarettes he favored. I was never quite able to shake the cold feeling I’d get whenever he was around, though I tried to be kind to him, not wanting to hurt his feelings. Thankfully, he kept to himself for the most part, and he tended to be gone a lot. He was a freelance photographer for a travel magazine here in the U.S. called American Roadtrip, where he’d travel to
various towns and cities in the states, taking pictures and highlighting any interesting details. He did good work — I know, because I’ve checked and read them. Then there was the younger — just slightly older than my age of twenty-three — newlywed couple who seemed to fight and make up a lot. Like, a lot. Tessa and Matt were their names. They were really nice, just passionate… and vocal.

  Next was the cougar. Kat, she called herself. She had to be in her sixties, though she seemed to believe she was barely in her thirties. Bleach-blond hair, darkly tanned skin, fit, and she favored leopard-print everything — Spandex, blouses, bags, bathing suits, and shoes. She must have had something working for her, because she brought home a new sailor nearly every week. Her tramp-stamp might have had something to do with it. Tiger, it read at the base of her spine. I kept promising myself that one day soon I’d interview her for research purposes only, of course.

  And then there was me. AJ McAdams, author. I’d been an author for just over five years, having published my first novel when I was nineteen. I had nine novels under my belt, all military-themed romances, one of which was being made into a miniseries for A&E. What could I say? I found myself continually inspired living here practically in the back yard of the North Island Naval Air Station. In addition to writing novels, I blogged about life on the island – Barefoot in Blue Jeans, the blog was called. My last book, Falling for A Seabee, hit the New York Times number one spot within the first twenty-four hours of its release. I was on tour with that one for almost two weeks. That was a fun trip because I’d been able to be a part of a Military Appreciation event where I’d been given a tour of part of the base at Miramar.

  Being an author — being an author this busy –—I rarely had time for a social life, despite the efforts of my agent, Leslie Simeon, to the contrary. Leslie tended to throw cover models my way quite frequently, and she’d send me texts reminding me to get out more. I got out — I needed coffee and food after all — but I hadn’t really dated anyone for the last three years. My most recent relationship had been a heartbreak of a disaster; enough so that I’d decided to swear off any personal romances for the time being. Plus, I was a workaholic, and I hadn’t decided yet if that was a curse or a blessing. But either way, I was almost always writing, no matter where I was, because there was almost always a story in my head. It was a little odd, even though I spent most of my time in make-believe, not much caught me off-guard.

  Until this letter.

  From an attorney in Washington State.

  With supposed information about my biological father, and the will he wrote with my name as the beneficiary. The letter had gone to my agent first, and she’d in turn forwarded it to me.

  My heart was right now still pinging off my ribcage. “Shut the front door!” I said again.

  Mrs. Carson, my landlady, popped her head out from the study. “What was that, AJ? What’s wrong with the front door?” Her aged green eyes looked to the door in question and then back to me.

  “Oh, nothing, Mrs. Carson. Sorry. I was… just… shocked about something.”

  “Hmmm…” Mrs. Carson responded. She wasn’t sure what to make of me and never had been. To her way of thinking, I didn’t act the way a young woman ought to. She’d expected me to have a parade of boys traipsing through at all hours, or at least a steady boyfriend, or lover, or something. And no, I wasn’t speculating or assuming this was her thinking. She’d told me this to my face. Nicely, but still.

  I waved to her as I headed up the doublewide staircase to the second floor and my room, where it overlooked the ocean just yards away. As I opened the door to my lodgings, taking in the sand-colored walls and the light blue-tinted floorboards, my cat, Josephine, crawled out from under the bed where she’d been sleeping. Her long, silver calico coat glistened in a patch of sunlight. Josephine wound herself around my leg a time or two, happy to see me. I bent to pick her up, then held her in my arms for a moment, scratching behind her ears, listening to her soft purr. When a bird fluttered onto the balcony, she wanted down, so I let her go.

  Sitting at my little writing table where my laptop was set up, I reread the letter from Kerry Walker, Attorney-at-Law. Mr. Walker had been retained by a man named Ryler Dean, for one Jacob T. Daniels, who, according to this letter, claimed to be my biological father. He had left me all his possessions, including his house and some land near Sequim, Washington. At least that was what this letter was saying, and that I needed to be in touch with Mr. Walker soon to make arrangements to settle the estate.

  Again, what the actual french toast? The news was a shock because first off, I had been told by my mother that my paternal father had died before I was born, and that his name had been Hank, not Jacob. And second, my mother and I did not have an easy relationship. We never had, really. There had been many stops and starts along the way between her and me. As I read through the document and took in all of its ramifications, my stomach knotted.

  Setting the letter down on the table, I let my eyes wander my room, not really seeing anything, just trying to think past the haze that had clouded my vision. My gaze happened to land on my answering machine; yes, I was one of those old-fashioned types who still used a landline and answering machine. It was blinking, indicating that I had a message waiting.

  I scrolled through the Caller ID and saw it was a call from Leslie, and considering the letter I had in my procession, I assumed it had to do with this. After pressing the button, I listened to the message. “Hey, beautiful,” Leslie’s low, almost sultry voice said in her mild southern twang. “I received an important communication that pertains to you. I need you to give me a call, sweetie.”

  Needing answers, needing to speak with Leslie before I called my mom, I quickly dialed her number.

  “Lez,” I said as she answered. “What the heck is this letter?”

  “AJ, hon, I got it yesterday and overnighted it to you. It was addressed to me with a note attached explaining the circumstances, mainly that your address is private, and this needed to reach you. I took the time to verify what I could about the details. Kerry Walker is a legitimate attorney located in the state of Washington. I even verified the death of Jacob Daniels — I’m sorry. I spoke with the attorney, Mr. Walker, as well. I called him. He has a county-certified paternity test proving Mr. Daniels is, was, your father. He wouldn’t let me know what is in the will, only assured me that you are named the beneficiary in it. He also said he has information explaining all these circumstances and more to you.”

  “Lez, I just… I… just don’t even know what to say, what to think. My mom told me that my dad had died before I was born. If he was alive, why was he never in touch with me? Why did he let my entire life go by without any contact, until his death?”

  “I don’t know, sweetie. I really don’t…”

  I nodded at the phone, and swallowed. “Okay. I’m going to give my mom a call and see what she has to say. Then I’ll try to be in touch with Mr. Walker. Thank you, Lez. You’re the best.”

  “Sounds like a plan. Let me know how you make out.”

  “Will do,” I said as I hung up.

  Coffee. Coffee was what I needed if I was going to be in touch with my mother — it was too early for wine. Rising from the table, I grabbed my purse, told Josephine to hold down the fort, and headed back out my door.

  Café 1134 on Orange Avenue wasn’t too crowded when I arrived; the large clock on the wall showed it was just after three. I only waited about five minutes or so to place my order — a large vanilla chai latte with whip.

  Kevin took my order. “What’s up, shorty?” he asked, his chiseled features turning up into a swoon-worthy grin.

  Shorty. That was what Kevin had called me the first time we’d met four years ago. I wasn’t short per se; however, compared to him, I suppose I was. My frame was just shy of five-feet-four and a half inches. Kevin had to be somewhere in the ballpark of six feet four, or maybe five. All I knew was I came to just about his chest. And I knew this because he hugged me ofte
n — Kevin was a hugger. He meant it in a completely friendly manner, nothing inappropriate, more like a big, cuddly teddy bear or older brother. “Nothing much, tall man,” I replied.

  Kevin looked at me closely, eyebrow rising in disbelief. “You sure about that?”

  “Yeah, Kev. Just have a lot on my mind.”

  “Book stuff? You’re looking for a hot model for your next cover, aren’t you? I told you… I volunteer.”

  That made me grin. “If I am ever in need of a hot guy for my cover, you know you’re my man, Kev. Thanks.”

  Kevin handed over my coffee. “I made you smile. That means I’ve done a good job. You take it easy, shorty.”

  “You too, Kev. And, thank you.”

  I’d ridden my bike to the café. It wasn’t far, only about a mile or so away from the house. And I liked to bike. Or walk. I just liked it here. Coronado was about as ideal and beautiful a place as you could want. Temperatures were almost always perfect, and the white beaches, the sunsets, sunrises, the swaying palm trees… they’re all just beautiful. But seeing as how I now had my coffee, I decided to walk my bike back to the house, rather than ride it.

  Orange Avenue was one of the main business streets on the island, but I was able to maneuver through the busy traffic fairly well. As I neared Alameda Boulevard, I spied Sandy, a local man whom I’m almost positive made his living panhandling and lived on the beach. We’d enjoyed a cup of coffee or bowl of soup together a couple times. Sandy was across the street from me, and as I wasn’t in the mood for company, I just waved to him and continued on my way, walking my bike and sipping my drink. I ended up on a rock looking over the beach and the waves beyond, and sat to drink my coffee. When I was nearly finished, I pulled out my cell phone and called my mother.

  Complicated. That was the best way to describe the relationship between my mother and me. Everything with her was complicated. My heart beat slow and heavy in my chest as I waited for her to pick up; this wasn’t a conversation I was looking forward to having.