Rodeo had been leaning against the back of the truck nursing a cigarette when Jadyn steps out of the library. He watches her approach with intensely focused blue eyes, pushing off the van to stand, flicking his cigarette to the curb and squaring his shoulders. There is something both deferential and defiant about the way he looks at her, as if acknowledging her right to admonish him and yet daring her to try it all the same. In truth, Rodeo is incredibly grateful for the hard look in the Lioness' eyes. It's important for him to hold on to this-- to remember the price to be paid for the path that he's on. If this road continues, he'll keep paying in blood. Next time it might be one of his own.
Something has to change. This woman before him is a stony-faced reminder of that. She doesn't trust him, and she has no reason to. His crew has been violent and wantonly destructive since the moment they gathered into existence, and if he were in charge of the lives of over a thousand soft-bellied civilians, Rodeo can imagine that his opportunistic pack of well-armed scavengers would be viewed as a definite threat. The Hellhounds may not target LBJ scouts, but that doesn't mean they've never taken from them before-- it's happened, Rodeo knows it's happened. If it were his shelter, his scouts, one shake-down over a haul of supplies would be one too many. He has to remember what that looks like here from the other side, what he looks like. He has to remember that he has earned the look that Jadyn is giving him right now. If she distrusts him, if she despises him, that's on him.
No one else is willing to lay down the blame he deserves for what happened today. Everyone back home keeps on digging in their heels, doggedly denying that Rodeo has Wolfe's blood on his hands. It isn't just some kind of displaced self-deprecation that has Rodeo blaming himself. The choices he's made and the violence he's sowed have led them here, to a place where allying yourself with him can make a public enemy out of anyone. He doesn't want to be placated and consoled by anyone right now. This pain, this blame is something he needs to feel. Something he needs to fucking remember. Something he needs to fuel the change happening in him.
By the time Day reaches him, Rodeo steps away from the back of the van to let her men open the doors to retrieve Wolfe's body. His own men wait on growling motorcycles in the front, and Rodeo glances their way and holds up a hand to tell them to wait before he starts to follow Jadyn into the building. He knows Lita is somewhere inside, knows that if she sees him now the jig is up-- he's wearing his cut, the back patch crowned and the rocker at his breast declaring him KING. It doesn't make him hesitate. If he loses Lita over this, it'll be the least he deserves to lose.
There's no denying that Rodeo looks worse for wear and when folks stare at him as he heads inside with Jadyn, it's not just because they're shocked to see the Dog King walking into LBJ Library. It's probably got more to do with the blood splatter on his shirt and the mottled bruising still circling his cheek and browbone from the blast of rubble a few days before, the slight limp in his step and the darkness in his eyes. He doesn't say anything as he follows to Day's office, doesn't say anything until they've stepped inside and shut the door.
"Look, I know it don't mean shit, but I'm sorry," Rodeo says, honest and hardheadedly sober. "I ain't sayin' that to hear you tell me it's alright, 'cause it's not. I ain't sayin' that to hear you forgive me, 'cause you shouldn't. And I ain't sayin' it for pity, 'cause I know you ain't got a drop. I'm just sorry. This is on me."