Rogue Passion (The Rogue Series Book 5)

by Chelsea M. Cameron

  “Sure, of course. I don’t know if you can ever really prepare for this. That’s kind of why I waited. And I’m honestly not sure if I want to go through with this, but I wanted to hear your pitch.” Echo typed something into her phone and nodded.

  “Of course. So I’m doing a series about people resisting in different ways. Small ways, big ways. I’m trying to cast a wide net to get as many interesting stories as possible. And you, Saylor Talbot, are interesting.”

  I nearly fell off my chair. She couldn’t have shocked me more if she had asked me to take off my clothes and dance the hokey pokey.

  “I’m sorry, did you just say I’m interesting?” I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had called me interesting. I wasn’t sure if anyone ever had.

  Echo grinned at me and my heart did a slow roll over. Pretty girls, pretty girls, why was I such a wreck around pretty girls?

  “Yes, Saylor, you are interesting. That picture captured something; captured your rage and your passion and your energy and people responded to that. They wouldn’t have seen all that if it wasn’t inside you. I want to show them who that girl is. Tell them who you are and how you got to that moment.” If I’d been impressed before, I was now on a whole other level. This girl was special.

  The waiter chose that moment to bring the appetizer, and that gave me a chance to breathe and figure out how I was going to respond. Echo didn’t say anything else and kept her eyes on the bruschetta, as if giving me space. Yeah, she was good.

  “How did you get into journalism?” I asked. She had been vague in her bio about everything before college. I selected a crostini and took a small bite. I didn’t need to drop a bunch of tomatoes on my lap.

  “Well, my parents wanted me to work for the family restaurant like my older brother and sister, but it wasn’t for me.” She took a bite and chewed slowly. “I enjoyed helping out, but I never wanted that to be my life. I wanted to build something of my own. Let’s just say they weren’t very happy at first, but now they have a bunch of my articles framed in the restaurant and pass around printouts whenever a new piece comes out. So you get an article with your appetizer.”

  “That is so cute. I love that.” My parents were… my parents. We spent holidays together, but we just didn’t have anything in common. They were apathetic when it came to politics and rarely voted. I just couldn’t deal with their complacency when our country was in crisis.

  “Yeah, they came around. It was rough at first.” She cringed at a memory and then shook her head.

  We ate and chatted some more, talking about this and that. Nothing serious. Nothing about the article. Just learning about each other, as if we were becoming friends.

  Of course, in the back of my mind, I knew that Echo wasn’t my friend. She was a journalist and she wanted to write an article. I was a subject, not a friend. I couldn’t let myself get too relaxed and tell her things I wouldn’t want her to print.

  Building rapport was probably in the Journalist Handbook. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was one of the first rules.

  “I’m not here to put any pressure on you, Saylor. I don’t want to talk you into anything you will regret. I’m not here to bully you or to make a sensational story. I don’t work for clicks.” That last sentence gave me pause. All journalists worked for clicks. That was the point, wasn’t it?

  “Why did you get into journalism?” I asked. I was still completely unsure about this whole thing and I needed someone or something to tell me “yes, do the article, you can trust her” or “no, run away and burn your social media to the ground so she can’t find you.” Right now both options were even.

  She set down an unfinished piece of bruschetta and folded her hands on the table.

  “My parents opened their restaurant when I was a toddler in a predominantly white area. Let’s just say that people weren’t breaking through the door. But then a journalist came in, loved the food, and interviewed them for the local paper. The article was real and raw and talked about their struggles to make it. As soon as it came out, people started coming in, and then there were more articles and more people and they were able to finally build their business after years of failure and trying. So that journalist who wrote that article helped shine a light on a restaurant that those people might not have looked twice at. That’s what my job is. Shining a light on something people might not see. Shining a light in the darkness. I know that sounds extremely altruistic, but it’s what gets me out of bed every morning. Even when I’m completely jetlagged and haven’t slept. That’s what keeps me going.”

  Either she was the best actress I’d ever met, or she really believed that. And judging from the sincerity in her eyes and on her face, it was the latter. In that moment, I made my decision.

  Our entrees arrived, once again giving me time to recover.

  “I’ll do it,” I said. “I’m in.”

  Her eyes went wide.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. If anyone is going to tell my uninteresting story and make it interesting, I want it to be you, Echo.” Saying her name made me blush for some reason. It was such a great name.

  “Shake on it?” she said, holding out her hand.

  “Deal,” I said.

  “Deal,” she repeated.

  My stomach dropped as I realized what I had just agreed to.

  Shit. What did I just agree to?

  3

  I made it through the rest of the meal putting on a good face and (hopefully) convincing her that I was absolutely fine and wasn’t an anxious mess inside.

  “You can still back out,” Echo said as we parted ways on the sidewalk. “Just email me and it’s over. Otherwise, I’ll see you next week.” We had agreed on a time to do our first interview. She wanted to do at least two, and bring in a photographer for the second to round out the story. I was going to have to clean the crap out of my apartment. Maybe buy some plants or something.

  “See you next week,” I said. I was just about to turn around and walk away, but for some reason, my feet wouldn’t move. They were stuck to the concrete, as if it was fresh and I’d gotten stuck.

  “It was really nice to meet you,” she said, taking a step toward me, and then another. We were nearly chest to chest. Our heights almost matched exactly, so I couldn’t look anywhere but into her eyes.

  “It was nice to meet you,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. I could barely breathe. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The spell broke and I stumbled back a step, as if she’d released me.

  “Goodbye,” she said, also stepping back. I had no idea what the hell that was, but I knew I was going to be recovering from it for a while.

  “Bye,” I said, and my legs finally started to work and took me back in the direction of the closest subway station.

  One week later…

  I had cleaned everything in my apartment. Twice. Things that I had never even thought of cleaning, like the baseboards and the light switches and even the inside of the dishwasher got scrubbed and polished and disinfected. The place practically sparkled and looked better than it had when I’d moved in.

  I had also gotten some paint and done touch-ups on the walls, and bought a few plants to make the place look nicer. I’d hidden anything that I wouldn’t want her to write about (including a few stuffed animals I kept on the bed) and I was ready. Or as ready as I was ever going to be. I’d exchanged more than a few emails back and forth with Echo, but we hadn’t been talking about the article. She’d asked me to tell her what a good place was to get some ice cream, and then we talked about our favorite movies and somehow that evolved into arguing about which flavor of chips is best. She was firmly on Team Salt and Vinegar, and I was on Team Nacho Cheese. Neither of us was budging.

  It was one thing to chat with her via email, where we could pretend we were just two people building some kind of new friendship, but it was another to see her in person and do an interview, so I was beyond nervous.

  Finally, the doorbell rang and I tried to ste
ady myself. I’d worn another professional outfit that I wouldn’t normally hang around the house in. If I had worn my regular “hanging around the house” clothes, I would be wearing a tank top and underwear. I didn’t think Echo wanted to see that, but imaging her walking in with me wearing that outfit made me blush as I was undoing the locks and opening the door.

  “Hey, come on in,” I said, and my voice sounded fake. I cringed inwardly and hoped I could get it together.

  “Thanks,” she said. This time she had a high-necked gray dress with black panels on the sides that hugged her body perfectly. Slung over her shoulder was a serious handbag that looked like it was heavy with notebooks and a laptop.

  I stepped back to let her in and she shucked off the same sparkly sneakers from the other day and set them next to mine in the doorway.

  “I can’t stand uncomfortable shoes,” she said as if I’d asked her about the shoes.

  “I love them. They’re so cute.” I bit my tongue so I didn’t ask if they were queer rainbows or not. It’s not like people walk around wearing gender and sexuality signs.

  “Thanks, I got them for Pride last year and I can’t seem to stop wearing them.” My heart did a little twirl in my chest at the mention of Pride. Still, that wasn’t a guarantee. Plenty of allies went to Pride.

  “I definitely want to get some like that,” I said, but I couldn’t find a subtle way to be like “hey, I’m queer af, are you queer af too?”

  Instead, I asked her if she wanted anything. I’d been a total dork and gone out to buy snacks and things she might like. Including a bag of salt and vinegar chips, even though it was against my beliefs to have that kind of thing in my house.

  “Water is fine,” she said and I made a big production about getting her the right-sized glass and ice and making sure the water was the right temperature.

  “It’s okay, Saylor, you can relax,” she said as I handed her the glass with slightly shaking fingers.

  “I’m fine. I really am. I just never have people over. I’m sorry about the mess.” That was something you had to say when you had people over, even if your house had never been cleaner.

  “Your place is so cute. I love the plants. They really add a nice touch.” I wanted to pat myself on the back for getting the plants. I was definitely going to keep them. I’d got some crawling vines to trail down my bookcases and a few hanging baskets for the windows. I wished I had a patio to put them on, but the best I could do was put them in front of the two biggest windows in my living room.

  “Thanks. Are you sure you don’t want anything else? I have snacks.” She sat down on the chair I’d arranged perpendicular to the couch to make a little seating area. It didn’t escape my notice that she put the water down on one of my brand new coasters. Adults had things like seating areas and coasters and plants. I could pretend to be an adult.

  “Oh, sure. If it’s no trouble. I’ve been going all day and I haven’t stopped to eat much. Occupational hazard.” She shrugged one shoulder and started unpacking her bag and organizing it on the coffee table.

  “Coming right up.”

  This was the first time ever I’d wished I knew how to make a beautiful arrangement of classy cheese and meat and fancy crackers on a lovely platter or rustic block of wood, but I wasn’t that kind of girl. Instead I put some of the salt and vinegar chips in a bowl, threw some crackers on the side, added some pre-sliced cheese and a few strawberries and figured that was as good as it was going to get.

  “Wow, you didn’t have to go through all this trouble,” she said, shuffling some of her papers and notebooks aside.

  “It’s no trouble. I had all this stuff in my fridge,” I lied. “Except for the chips. Those I had to buy, and I’m sending them with you when you leave so they don’t contaminate my house.” I didn’t know if I could bring anything from our friendly emails into this interview or not, but I was testing the waters.

  “You really didn’t have to do that,” she said, laughing and grabbing a chip. “But I’m glad you did.” In spite of her formal attire, she looked comfortable and casual, her feet tucked up in the chair and eating chips. I felt a little bit of the tension I’d been holding onto the whole week ease. Just a little.

  I sat down on the couch and tried to get comfortable. I finally settled on leaning back and holding a pillow against my chest. I wished I had one of my stuffed animals, but they were hiding under the bed, poor things. I couldn’t wait to rescue them.

  “So, I thought we could start with some basic warm-up questions and then we’ll go forward with the interview. Just to get you comfortable, okay?” I nodded and my nerves returned, roaring in my chest.

  “Relax. I’m not her to interrogate you.”

  “Uh huh,” I said, but it didn’t sound convincing.

  “So, where did you grow up?”

  I told her, and then she asked me my favorite subject in school and before I knew it, we were arguing about chips again and I was laughing. Something about Echo’s energy put me at ease.

  “Okay, okay. You ready? I like to record all my interviews in case I miss anything, and I also take notes.” I had expected that.

  “Sure.” She set up her phone to record and pulled out one of the notebooks. To my surprise, it had sparkles on the cover.

  “I’m kind of a notebook hoarder. I have hundreds in my apartment. It’s ridiculous.”

  “I like it,” I said and tried to let go of my death grip on the pillow.

  “Thank you,” she said, opening the cover and holding her pen on the page.

  “How about you tell me your name, how to spell it, how old you are, and what you do for work.” I gave her the answers, and then she asked a few more specifics about my life. We went off on a long tangent about my passion for crocheting afghans that I was pretty sure wasn’t going to make it into the article, but it got me talking.

  “What was going through your mind when this picture was taken.” She had a copy blown up for me to look at. I didn’t know the woman in the picture. I knew she was me, but it didn’t look like the kind of me I lived with every day. She was angry. She was fearless. She was ready to burn everything to the ground.

  “Honestly? I’m not sure. I remember thinking that I really had to pee, but I wasn’t going to back down. And then that SWAT guy was there in my face and trying to push me back and I think I had just had enough. I was just chanting along with everyone else and making sure I didn’t drop my sign. I wasn’t thinking about being photographed.” The words had rushed out all at once.

  “I shouldn’t have said the thing about needing to pee.” I felt my face going red.

  Echo laughed.

  “No, it’s fine. That’s the kind of stuff I want to hear. I want to hear reality, in all its glory.” Well, I could give her that.

  She moved on to other questions and the way she asked me, it was like we were two friends, having a chat about something. Just like sending the emails. We joked and laughed and I realized I’d let go of the pillow and started munching on snacks and telling her all kinds of things.

  “Don’t put that on the record,” I said after I’d told her about another protest I’d been to where I’d ended up in the emergency room because I’d tripped and cut my knee open before we’d even started marching and ended up missing the whole thing.

  “Can do. As soon as we’re back on the record, let me know.”

  “Cool, yeah. You can go back on the record,” I said and for some reason I gave her two thumbs up like a complete and utter dork.

  She laughed and I realized that I loved the sound and I wanted to hear it as many times as possible before this was over. I still couldn’t get over how damn pretty she was. I swear, she had gone up five levels of pretty over the last week. I couldn’t stop staring at her face as she scrawled notes in loopy handwriting that was still legible no matter how fast she was writing. Not that I was trying to read her notes upside down or anything.

  My voice started to tire and I could tell she was fading as we
ll.

  “Do you mind if we stop for today?” I asked. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve talked this much about myself. I’m tired of hearing about me.” That made her laugh again and I shivered. I loved that sound.

  “Sounds good,” she said, taking her phone and turning off the microphone app before scribbling a few more notes and then closing the notebook.

  I figured she had somewhere else to be, but I had to fight not to beg her to stay. To talk to me some more. To finish the bag of chips. To go out to dinner with me. I definitely should not say the last thing out loud. You couldn’t go to dinner with the journalist profiling you, unless it was a working dinner, which this wouldn’t be. Plus, I was sure she wouldn’t want to go to dinner with me after listening to me blab for hours. Echo was probably completely sick of me.

  “Thanks for making this an almost painless experience so far.” I still had the second interview and the photos to come, but I was going to worry about those later, or at least try to put off the worry a little. I could still pull the plug on this whole thing if I wanted to.

  “Of course,” she said, but she wasn’t getting up. Instead, she sighed and closed her eyes, leaning back in the chair.

  “It’s so nice to sit in a comfortable chair for a little while. I’m sure my editor is trying to reach me, but I just want to stand still for a second. Or sit still.” She let out a contented sigh and I wasn’t sure what to do. Did I leave the room? Did I stay still? Did I get her more snacks?

  “Uh, would you like some tea or something?”

  Her eyes cracked open and a sleepy smile spread on her lips.

  “That would be lovely, thank you. Green with honey, if you have them.” I stood up and stretched my back.

  “I have both. Be right back.”

  I tiptoed out of the room as she closed her eyes again. I wondered if she was going to fall asleep in my chair. Granted, it was a completely comfortable chair. It had soft suede fabric and thick cushions. I’d passed out there myself on more than one occasion.