Rebel (Renegades #2)(78)
Author: Skye Jordan

Wes refocused on Whitney with some crazy-ass fizzy brew messing with his stomach. “But the best thing is”—he took the beer Whitney held out to him and met her gaze with a smile of fresh confidence—“she’s even more beautiful on the inside.”

She didn’t hide a flash of suspicion. “Sure you’re not just blinded by love, bro? You’ve always been a closet romantic.”

“Don’t tell her that. Romance freaks her out.”

“How’d you convince her to come? I thought she said no way.”

“She did,” Wes said. “Then changed her mind and just showed up today while I was at the VA with Wyatt.” He glanced at Whit and shook his head. “What a cluster that almost turned out to be.”

He relayed the story about Melissa and the kiss.

“And you still convinced her to stay? You must have a serious way with words.”

“Me? Way with words?” He lifted the backs of his fingers to her forehead as if testing her temperature.

Whitney batted his hand away. “True. I forgot who I was talking to.” With her gaze on Rubi and his mom again, a sly grin edged her mouth up, and Whitney cut her gaze toward Wes with a slight lift of her chin. “This ought to be entertaining. Let’s see if she can slice a few inches of those two.”

Wes hoped it was entertaining in a good way. He’d always believed Rubi could handle herself in any situation, but this new vulnerability around family was more than a little unnerving.

He and Whitney both took a drink from their bottles, watching as his mother introduced Rubi to his cousin Martin—the I-made-partner-last-month-what’s-new-with-you CPA, and his cousin Sam—the check-out-my-latest-Mercedes attorney. Both men, about five years older than Wes, turned from their conversation and focused directly on Rubi with a deer-in-the-headlights sort of shock.

“They’re frothing at the mouth,” Whit said, her voice droll with disgust. “Not a surprising start.”

“Give her a minute,” Wes said. “She likes to make them feel comfortable before she plunges the knife.”

Martin and Sam chatted easily with Rubi for a few moments. Wes caught a word or a phrase, but nothing more. Whitney must have been just as diligently struggling to hear the conversation, because she wrapped her fingers around his wrist and pulled him toward a snack table closer to the group. Wes kept his back that direction, facing Whitney as he speared a piece of salami with a toothpick.

“Russo Industries is owned by my father,” Rubi was saying, “and even though he and I aren’t close at all, he is all over that rig Wes built for Wyatt. It is a truly cutting-edge design, let me tell you. Dolph cherry-picks every project, and when he believes in a product, you can bet he’s going to send that inventor into the stratosphere as a rising star. But I’m having a hard time convincing Wes to entertain the idea. He’s so focused on getting Wyatt back on his feet, selling the rig is the furthest thing from his mind.”

“Fascinating,” Martin said with all his manufactured sophistication. “What would something like that go for? Hypothetically, of course.”

Rubi laughed. “Oh, I couldn’t even fathom. There would be an initial purchase, then typically royalties based on the number of units sold. We’re talking multimillions.”

Wes was imagining the look on his cousins’ pompous faces when Whitney spewed beer across his shirt. He jumped back. “What the—?”

He caught himself before he roared Fuck across the house, brushing at his now wet shirt. Whitney choked on a laugh, one hand covering her mouth.

“I’m fine.” She put up a hand to the observers. “Sorry. Wes just made me squirt beer from my nose laughing. Nothing new.”

Wes glanced over his shoulder and caught Rubi’s eye. The sparkle there sent the message that she knew he was listening and she was having fun.

When she turned away, Wes glanced down at his shirt, then back at Whitney. “What was that about?”

She took a step closer, her eyes watery from holding back laughter. “You should have seen their faces when she said millions. They both went as white as fish bellies.” She pulled herself together, wiping at her eyes, then sobered suddenly and pinned him with a gaze that had a way of being so intense. “Wait, is that true?”

He lifted a shoulder, glanced down at his beer. “She knows better than I do, and she knows her father’s business. But she’s the brilliant one, not me.”

“Not crazy at all,” Rubi was saying. “Wes doesn’t need the work, the money, or the fame. He’s already at the top of the stunt game, getting the best, highest-paying jobs in the industry, working with the top stars. I mean, he got that black eye while he was out with Jason Bolton last week. He works side by side with Jax Chamberlin every day. Tom Cruise, Jason Statham, Bruce Willis, Vin Diesel, you name a big star, Wes knows them all. He taught freaking Angelina Jolie how to fall off a building and not kill herself.

“Really, how much higher could he go in his chosen field? I mean, he’s working the latest Bond movie now. And we all know only the best of the best are chosen for a Bond film,” she said with authority. “In fact, he’s been asked to act on several occasions—by Daniel Craig himself—but Wes loves the thrill of the stunt more. I really admire that.”

Whitney’s big blue eyes lifted to Wes. “Fuuuuuck,” she whispered. “She’s good. Did you coach her?”

“Oh no. That is all Rubi.”

“Is it true?”

He shrugged, grinned. “She’s taking some creative license.”

“You sure as hell wouldn’t know it.”

“I’m beginning to think she’s a f**king savant.”

Whitney took another sip of beer, watching their mother steer Rubi away from the cousins, who both looked distraught and pissed.

“Okay,” Whit said, “here’s a good test.”

Wes sent a sideways glance toward Rubi as she and his mother approached his father. “Man,” he said, “she’s not wasting any time.”

“Mom likes her,” Whit said, “and believes she can hold her own with Dad, or she wouldn’t introduce them so soon.”

Wes grew a little nervous. Shifted on his feet. “I can’t hear.”

Rubi shook his father’s hand. He didn’t smile—he was a stoic kind of guy—and then crossed his arms. Within thirty seconds, Rubi had their man-of-few-words father talking. Even gesturing.