Rogue Ever After (The Rogue Series Book 7)

by Tamsen Parker

  The kids deserved so much better than what she could offer them, but at least she was doing something. Queer teenage Archer who had been so, so messed up over needing to keep her foster parents’ approval but also feeling so stifled she’d felt as though she was drowning—she would’ve been so grateful for Rivera House. If she’d been able to get a spot anyway, because they only had twenty-five beds between the two centers they could afford right now. Archer had her eye on opening a third by the end of next year but that meant more work, more people to hire, more outreach, and most of all, more money. Always with the fucking money.

  She turned to glare at Megan who was sprawled on Archer’s bed, making herself at home amongst the pile of pillows and blankets. More of a nest than a bed, truthfully. Hand on her hip, Archer stomped her foot. She could be working on a grant right now, or on the phone trying to sweet talk one of their donors out of their money. It grated on her that she was standing here in a fucking ballgown instead.

  “Seriously, though. Why did it have to be me?”

  Megan raised a shoulder. “I don’t know, dude. You’re a grumpy piece of shit.”

  Archer snort-laughed and took up a pillow from the floor to throw at her friend who caught it neatly and then tucked it under her head. The self-satisfied little gremlin who was her best friend smirked, but then her expression melted into one of earnestness.

  “It’s you because you do really good, really important work. You’re lucky that you’ll have this platform. I know you don’t like it, but I also know you’re going to wring every drop of opportunity out of being at the Empyreal Awards, because you’re an annoyingly selfless and self-righteous asshole who would be mad if you hadn’t gotten the opportunity because you’re going to do so much more with it than anyone else. Also you’re not afraid of anything and you’re really fucking loud so everyone’s going to have to hear you whether they want to or not, and you will make a difference. Probably a big one. So maybe you should shut up and try on the shoes she brought over too.”

  She was right. Megan was almost always right which was annoying but also one of the reasons they’d been friends for the past eight years. Archer couldn’t in good conscience be annoyed by people who had opinions since she herself had all the opinions, but she could want people who were wrong to shut the fuck up and not take up her time and energy.

  “Goddammit,” Archer muttered as she stomped over to the shoe boxes piled up by her bedroom door. “Goddammit all to hell.”

  * * *

  Hadley looked at the photo on her laptop for the hundred millionth time since she’d received it in her inbox yesterday. It was really quite unfortunate. On the plus side, there was only a week until the Empyreals so she’d only have to be a distracted ball of uselessness until then. The organizers of the activist partnership could’ve sent it out a month ago and then Hadley would’ve been out of commission for all of February instead of merely a quarter of it.

  She sunk her teeth into her bottom lip and tried not to drool as she studied the woman in the photo: black hair with an undercut on one side, showing off a geometric design etched into the short-cropped hair. There was something about the style that made Hadley’s fingers itch. She didn’t just want to admire the look in a photograph, or hell, even in person. She wanted to touch it, run her fingertips over the closely shorn hair and in the spots where the design was shaved down to Archer’s scalp, she wanted to feel her very skin, possibly make the woman shudder beneath her touch. Dammit.

  She wasn’t usually one to go whole hog into sexy fantasyland, especially with someone she barely knew, but she’d made a study of the woman who was to be her date at the Empyreals. When the coordinators had contacted her and asked if she’d be willing to take an activist to the awards to raise awareness, she’d said yes with only a beat of hesitation. It was the kind of thing that she’d desperately want to do, but would never by herself. The voice of her first agent still rang too loud in her head.

  Tommy had done some really great things for her, but he’d also been too willing to deal with some of the biggest assholes in the business. Which involved giving her the advice that she’d never work if the big directors—who he automatically assumed would be male because he was a chauvinist pig—didn’t think they at least had a shot at fucking her so she should keep that queer shit under wraps. She hadn’t liked it, but she did want to be successful so she’d done as he asked.

  But even though Tommy’s insidious whispering was still in the back of her brain, there was an entire coven of women who would be escorting activists on the red carpet so she wouldn’t be singled out as someone who spoke too loud, someone who made waves, who wanted to start trouble. Being “difficult to work with” in this business could be the kiss of death, particularly for a starlet. Unfair? Heck yes, but she didn’t feel like she was in a position—yet—to make a difference.

  Which was one of the things she admired about Archer Kydd, aside from the woman’s broad cheekbones that made her heart-shaped face more angular, sharper in a way that could cut. And Archer was sharp. Hadley had read opinion pieces she’d written, every page of Rivera House’s website, and even watched Archer speak in YouTube videos. Hell, she’d done a TED Talk for goodness sake, and Hadley had barely breathed as she watched Archer own the stage with her physical presence, the way she used her hands to make a point, her voice strong and clear. She was a great storyteller, she’d be wonderful on stage where one had to project everything in order to be heard.

  Hadley had never loved the stage—it was exhausting, having to be enough to reach the back rows of the theater with your voice and she felt foolish making her motions and expressions big enough that they could be telegraphed to the far seats. She much preferred the close and subtle emotions one could play with when a camera was inches from one’s face. Even through the awkwardness of a love scene.

  Most often she had some Hollywood hunk between her thighs who she faked making love to, and while the critics seemed to think she was skilled at stoking coals of chemistry with her onscreen lovers, she never got as turned on during those scenes as she did by watching Archer lecture an audience. Yeah, it was awkward that she was talking about the specific dangers of being a queer kid, especially one in the foster care system as she’d been herself which was a terrible position to be in, but… Archer’s passion, her erudition, the way her face lit up and her whole body was engaged in recruiting anyone within earshot to her cause was really hot.

  Hadley’d already put in a call to her manager to make a significant donation to Archer’s non-profit, but her certainty and expertise inspired feelings other than generosity in Hadley’s heart. Competence porn was a thing, and that’s what had Hadley fantasizing about having Archer’s sturdy form nestled between her legs instead.

  Archer Kydd was wildly attractive and it was a problem.

  The organizers could’ve given her the climate change scientist or the animal rights activist or she could’ve talked food deserts with the urban access rights person, waiting periods and background checks with the gun control advocate. Or hell, even the butch lesbian who was a famous women’s rights activist from the seventies. In the promotional materials for the partnership, she was still looking fine with her short-cropped silver hair and a regal lavender pantsuit that would give Dame Judy Dench or Helen Mirren a run for their money, but Hadley would’ve rather sat at her feet and listened to her talk than get naked and very, very busy with her. Whereas Archer…

  She slammed her laptop shut, not able to look at the woman anymore, and Mason gave her a look from over her coffee table.

  “Problem?”

  Hadley dropped her head back against the couch and huffed a sigh. “She’s too hot, Mase. What am I going to do?”

  Mason shrugged his broad shoulders. He himself was arguably one of the most attractive specimens of man on the planet and yet he did absolutely nothing for Hadley in the pants-feelings department. He was her best friend and she adored him which was nothing to sneeze at—his unwaveri
ng support and understanding was worth his weight in gold—but there was no sizzle, no spark. No wanting to tear each other’s clothes off and go at it. Things would be easier on both of them if there were.

  “Same thing you always do?”

  Hadley threw a pillow at his head. “I can’t ignore her or run in the opposite direction. She’s my date to this event. I’m going to have to talk to her and be charming and sit next to her and walk the red carpet with her and look friendly in pictures and oh my god, I’m going to die.”

  She flopped onto the sofa and stared up at the ceiling.

  “Maybe she’ll have a voice like nails on a chalkboard. Maybe she’ll treat you like you don’t have any brains in your head. Maybe—if you’re really lucky—she’ll smell bad.”

  Mason could always make her laugh. And perhaps he was right, although she already knew he was wrong about Archer’s voice. No shrill tones that sent a shudder through a person’s whole body when Archer spoke. No, it was more of a smooth tenor that made Hadley feel like she’d swallowed a mouthful of bourbon: comfort in the form of burning. That said, maybe the other things would be true. Being wildly attracted to a woman based off her picture, CV, and a few YouTube videos did not make in-person chemistry a sure bet. Maybe Archer Kydd would be awful and Hadley would look back on tonight and be embarrassed by how enamored she was of this woman.

  Somehow she didn’t think so but there was only one way to find out. She had a week left to torture herself before finding out for sure, and would hope against hope to please let Archer Kydd smell absolutely vile.

  2

  When Archer had first been invited to attend the Empyreal Awards as an attendee’s guest, she’d said sure. And she’d figured that with the show starting at eight, she’d have to be there at like seven-thirty to take some pictures and shit. It would take forty-five to get over to the theater and fuck, find a goddamn parking spot, so she’d have to leave her apartment by six-thirty at the latest.

  Except that wasn’t how this worked. It wasn’t how any of this worked.

  She’d been told she needed to show up at eleven at the staging area. What the fuck was a staging area? Turned out it was where they were going to attempt to make her look as close to a celebrity as they could get her. Which she’d hate to inform them, wasn’t very. She was an attractive woman, but she would never be called pretty, especially not by Hollywood standards. Nor was she thin, and there was no way in hell they were going to get her to look anything but awkward in the shoes Megan told her she had to wear. Also, they could fuck all the way off if they wanted to shave or wax her pits. Shouldn’t have given her a strapless gown if they didn’t want the full unvarnished Archer. On the plus side, her collarbones looked nice. Maybe that would be enough.

  She’d asked Megan to come over before she had to leave and didn’t pretend it was for anything other than ensuring that she got in her Fiesta and drove over to the staging area on time. She didn’t fucking wanna. Especially because she’d found out days ago that she was to attend with Hadley Beaumont.

  Pretty, petite, and perfect, Hadley Beaumont was a star. A luminous one who was being compared to Anne Hathaway, Scarlett Johansen, and other screen darlings who’d made the transition from just a pretty face to someone who had actual chops.

  All of this would’ve been fine, good, even because Hadley was sure to have cameras focused on her all night and they’d have to put little chyrons on the screen explaining who the fuck Archer was and why the hell she was sitting next to Hollywood’s current It Girl. Publicity. That’s what this was all about.

  Except…

  Except Archer was pretty sure Hadley was queer AF and had shut herself in the closet and tossed away the key. Which would normally be fine. It wasn’t any of Archer’s business when, how, and to whom people came out. She knew first-hand how dangerous it could be, had a scar on her scalp—the side she didn’t have her undercut on—from where her drunk foster dad had lunged at her with a broken bottle after calling her the devil’s own hand maiden after he’d found her kissing one of her foster sisters. She’d been thirteen. And she lived out the rest of her days in the system not saying or doing a damn thing about her sexuality because she couldn’t afford another incident like that. So it made her really fucking angry that American Princess Hadley Beaumont wouldn’t come out. What did she have to lose?

  There was a possibility that Archer was wrong. But not a high one—she’d won a hell of a lot of pizza and beer money by betting on her college classmates’ sexualities. People could say gaydar wasn’t a real thing all they liked, but she didn’t really have another explanation why she could reliably point out the queers in any given room. And Hadley Beaumont was one of them.

  Megan had been teasing her all week about it too, which also didn’t help matters.

  “You’ve been so salty about going to the Empyreals but I think even in your grumpy troll heart, you’re gonna have fun tonight.”

  “It’s not going to be fun,” Archer muttered over her shoulder as she threw stuff in a bag and then pulled it back out again, her navy-blue nails with the tiny silver sparkly stars glinting as she did. Megan had done them and her toes this morning and then threatened her with death if she smudged them. Because that’s what friends were for. Doing you a solid, and death threats. “I’m gonna be like a goddamn llama on ice skates out there, I’m going to be ridiculous.”

  “No, you’re getting all your ridiculous out right now. And I think you’d be more like an alpaca on a luge. Aren’t alpacas the ones with longer necks?”

  “Who fucking knows.”

  “You will have to watch your potty mouth though. They told you that, right? When there’s a microphone in your face, you can’t sound like a pirate who went to Harvard.”

  She’d gone to Oberlin and Megan knew it, so Archer wasn’t going to argue. And she could speak without swearing. Briefly. Hell, she’d done it for her TED Talk. How much harder could this be?

  Resigned, she tossed the bag back on the bed. They’d said she didn’t need to bring anything with her, that they’d have make-up and hair stuff there and all she needed to bring was herself so she supposed she’d believe them. She grabbed her billfold from her nightstand and shoved it in her back pocket.

  “It’ll be fine. I’ll get through this, hopefully get some new donors for Rivera House, and then I’ll come home and go back to normal.”

  “Oh no, this is gonna be a Cinderella story, I can feel it. You know you look fucking phenomenal in that dress and you’re going to meet your Hollywood happily ever after tonight.”

  Archer scoffed, and half-wished her shoes were glass. Even those would have to be more comfortable than the strappy torture devices Megan had picked out among the mountain of shoes her stylist had brought over. Stylist. Gross.

  “Well it’s not going to be Hadley Beaumont because if it were, she’d have to admit she’s queer as fuck. Not going to happen. She’s put a big ol’ blanket over her queer beacon, but she still pings my gaydar like whoa.”

  “Eh, you never know. And besides, if it’s not Hadley, it’ll be someone else. I mean, I know we all hoped Tessa Thompson and Janelle Monae were a thing but I would not object to you ending up with either one of them.”

  Archer flopped as well as she could while still being on her feet. “You need to lay off the matchmaking, really. I’m going to this waste of time and space and money to shill for Rivera House and that’s it. This isn’t about me, except I’m the fucking vessel for it.”

  Megan laid her hands on Archer’s shoulders, shaking her softly until Archer looked in her eyes.

  “I need you to do something tonight.”

  “No, I will not slip Chris Evans your phone number.”

  Megan opened her mouth, and Archer cut her off. “Or Lupita Nyong’o. Or Lucy Liu. Or Winston Duke. Or Cate Blanchett.”

  A roll of Megan’s eyes told Archer she’d pushed far enough. “Yeah, yeah, okay. What do you actually want?”

  For which she got a punc
h in the shoulder. Fine, next time she’d just keep needling her friend if it was going to result in getting punched either way.

  “I want you to have fun. Enjoy yourself. Absolutely do your work and get the word out, but this is a once in a lifetime opportunity. You’re a goddamn Cinderella in a beautiful gown who is going to be hanging out with some of the most gorgeous, rich, and famous people on the planet at a big fucking party, so enjoy it.”

  “Je refuse.”

  “You stubborn sack of shit. If not for yourself, do it for me. I didn’t get invited—”

  “They wanted activists, and you own a nail salon.”

  Megan held up a menacing and pointy finger. “A vegan, nine-free nail salon where I pay my employees a fair wage. I partner with Dress for Success to give women who are doing job interviews manicures.”

  “Yes, you own the best and most socially conscientious nail salon in SoCal, I won’t argue with you about that. I apologize.”

  “So do it for me. Have a good time. You’re allowed to once in a while. I know you feel like you need to earn any good things that come your way, but maybe consider for a second that you’ve earned a night of pleasure?”

  Blergh. That was an uncomfortable thought. Believing for even one second that she was good enough? That she’d done enough? Down that path lay… She didn’t know, actually, because she’d never been down it. Probably greed and sloth and an early death from gluttony. Even though Megan was looking at her expectantly, Archer couldn’t answer. At least not without sounding like an enormous fucking liar, and she hated that so silence it was.