Rogue Passion (The Rogue Series Book 5)

by Chelsea M. Cameron

  "A present?"

  "Yup, and you're going to hate it." He reaches into the breast pocket of his suit and pulls out…

  Official government documents?

  "Um…"

  I take them from him, because what else am I supposed to do?

  Beneath the table, his knee vibrates. He sips on his coffee, gazing at me like he's waiting for some sort of reaction. I glance from him to the papers and back again. He raises his brow and taps the top sheet.

  Okaaaaay…

  So I start reading.

  And my eyes just about bug out of my skull. Recoiling, I shove the papers back at him.

  "Is this some sort of joke?"

  "I mean, the electronic version is easier…"

  I shake my head vigorously. "You know that's not what I'm talking about."

  His expression goes serious in a flash. "I can't see what else you'd think I could be joking about."

  "All of it." I throw my hands up. "The whole thing. There's no way—"

  "Bullshit."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Bullshit. You could do it, Julie."

  "Run for Ryker's seat?"

  "Why not?"

  "I can only think of about a million reasons."

  "Name one." Challenge sparkles in his gaze.

  And there's something about having that singular focus trained on me that makes my breath speed. Electricity hums through my veins, and my insides tingle.

  Is this banter turning me on?

  Does it matter?

  I shake my head again, the gears in my head grinding to an ungraceful halt. I'm no good put on the spot like this. Which is reason enough, isn't it?

  "I—I can't. I get too flustered."

  See? Like I am in this conversation, right here.

  Eli disagrees. "You come across as genuine."

  Yeah, we're going to have to agree to disagree on that one.

  "I hate people," I try.

  "No, you don't, or you wouldn't be working so hard to help them." The tense lines around his eyes soften. "Look, I know you didn't want the limelight. I get it. Believe me. But you've got a spotlight shining on you now. Use it."

  Crap, when he puts it that way, it almost seems reasonable.

  So I try another tack, retreating to more practical concerns. "I'd need to get like a thousand signatures."

  "Three hundred seventy-five." He nods toward the stack of papers. "I already got you four hundred sixty-two. Check the last few pages."

  What?

  "How—?"

  "I gave it to Winnie. Took her two days."

  "Wait—"

  "You have the support."

  I sputter. "Don't I need some huge campaign fund or something?"

  "Set up a donation page. Every person coming to your rallies would chip in. Everyone who signed that petition. You'd have enough to get off the ground." How can he be so matter of fact about it? "You've been in the news all summer anyway, and they've been painting you as a minor saint. You can't buy that kind of exposure."

  My head is spinning. No. This doesn't make any sense—does it?

  "My job…"

  "You'd have to resign if you got elected. Working during the campaign isn't ideal, but you could spin it."

  I drop my face into my hands. "There can't possibly still be time to get on the ballot."

  It's August for Christ's sake.

  "You'd have to run as an independent, but you've still got a week." He presses his finger to the filing deadline printed in bold across the top of the form. "The Democrats didn't even bother to field a candidate, so you'd just be up against Ryker."

  I lift my head. "Who's running unopposed for a reason. He's been in office for, what, twenty years?"

  "Twenty-two."

  "I can't beat that."

  "You can. His numbers are terrible, and you've single-handedly kept one of his weakest positions right on top of everyone's radar. A stick with a gun control sign could run against him, and it'd have a decent shot."

  "Then go find a stick."

  "People on the left want you—a charismatic, well-spoken, intelligent, beautiful, passionate woman—"

  "You think I'm beautiful?"

  His mouth clamps shut, and—holy shit, is that a flush rising on his cheeks? "It doesn't matter. You play well on TV. You're authentic, altruistic. You're the opposite of an old white guy dripping with blood money. You're everything young voters are looking for."

  I'm still distracted by the beautiful comment, but I shake it off. Because no. This is crazy talk. He should know that this isn't for me.

  I've never wanted to be up in front of microphones and cameras. I've never wanted power.

  All I want is for my students to stop getting shot at, Goddammit all.

  I push back from the table, heart thundering, and it has nothing to do with him finding me attractive or the heat of arguing with him.

  It's panic. Pure and simple.

  "No. No, I can't."

  "Julie—"

  "No." I practically shout the word. The woman behind the counter and the couple of guys sitting by the window all snap their heads around to look at me, and I flush crimson clear down to my toes. I shake my head. My hands tremble. "No."

  I stumble out of my seat, taking two steps toward the door. Static hums in my ears. I turn away.

  Eli calls after me. "Julie—Julie."

  I pause. I glance over my shoulder to find him standing, one hand outstretched toward me.

  "Julie, you can do this. What the hell are you so afraid of?"

  I want to laugh. That's easy enough for him to ask.

  But it's not so easy for me to answer.

  "I'm sorry," I choke out.

  And then I run.

  4

  You can't outrun your fears, though.

  I head home that night with Eli's words ringing in my ears.

  You can do this, he told me, and I still don't believe it.

  But a little bit of distance makes it easier to at least consider it.

  What the hell are you so afraid of? he asked.

  And that's really the crux of the issue, isn't it?

  I turn the question around and around in my head as I go through the motions of my evening.

  The day this whole adventure really started, I told Eli about my grandparents. Their struggles with repression were what led them to this country. They were fleeing violence and a government that tried to control their every movement. They were lucky to be able to get out.

  But America wasn't always the land of the free. At least not for them.

  As I open my rice cooker and start scooping out a bowlful, I flash back to visions of my Chinese grandmother performing this same action, speaking in her broken English about how hard it was for my uncle in elementary school.

  My father was less charitable. He gloried in his older brother's failings. Uncle Jian shouldn't have opened his mouth so much if he didn't know English.

  My father was smarter. He stayed under the radar, only spoke when he was spoken to. He focused on the mathematics that transcended his difficulties with a foreign tongue, and he excelled.

  And that was what I was supposed to do, too.

  My knuckles go white as I grip the handle of my frying pan.

  Be quiet. Listen to instructions. Do what your teachers tell you to.

  How many times did I hear that lesson?

  How deeply did I internalize that message?

  Even when I finally decided I’d had enough, I made my voice heard in the quietest way that I knew how. I stood silent outside a building, waiting for my chance to speak one on one with the authority figure who could tell me yes or no.

  Right up until the moment Eli pushed me.

  Resentment burns in my gut. He was the one to tell me to speak louder. He told me how to draw attention to myself, and I let him, and see where it's gotten me? I'm fighting a lost cause with hundreds, if not thousands, looking to me, and we're going to lose. The whole movement is going to
run out of time. It's going to collapse.

  Unless I step forward once more.

  Releasing the frying pan, I grasp the edge of the counter with both hands.

  No. I couldn't possibly. I like to be quiet. I like to stay at home and read books and silently seethe.

  And I do nothing.

  I'm part of the problem.

  My vision blurs, my eyes stinging with unshed tears.

  All my life, I've been happy to follow my father's instructions. I’ve kept my head down. I’ve proven my worth and worked hard, and I never asked for any special attention. I've waited on the cues of others, and in a perfect world, that's what I'd keep doing forever.

  But it's not a perfect world. If I want anything to change, I have to be the one to roll up my sleeves and do the work.

  Doubt still lingers, gnawing at me.

  Am I really capable of being that person? Just interacting with my students every day wears me out. Speaking at rallies has been exhausting. Could I handle the glad-handing that comes with running for elected office?

  Eli seemed to think I could. My chest fills as I picture his face. He was shocked that I would think to say no. He really, honestly believed not only that I could win but that I could carry out the job. He knows I prefer the quiet life, and yet…

  Is he crazy? No one's ever had that kind of faith in me before.

  I certainly never have.

  But his conviction warms me, even now. He looked at me as if I could do anything I set my mind to. He believed in me.

  He thought I was beautiful.

  An echo of a laugh escapes my lips. Right. Because that's the thing I should really be focusing on in this moment. The next few months of my life—and maybe more—hinge on this one decision, and I'm mooning around over a boy who thinks I'm pretty.

  I'm not going to dwell on whether or not he's right about that. What matters is if he was right about the rest of it.

  Returning to my dinner, I scrape some of my stir fry onto my rice, then grab a pair of chopsticks and head to my computer. There, I open a new browser window.

  And I search running for state office.

  Because apparently I've got some big decisions to make.

  And a hell of a lot to learn.

  One week later, I stand outside that government office building by myself for the first time in I can't even remember how long. Far from a T-shirt and shorts, I'm wearing a skirt and low heels, like a goddamn adult. The sun is low in the sky, but the air still drips with humidity. Every inch of pavement seems to radiate heat.

  Still, I wait.

  Right around five o'clock, men and women in a mix of suits and business casual wear start trickling out. A few of them scowl at me. More than a few smile, and one old lady actually gives me a high five.

  I acknowledge each in turn, trying to be sociable. Charming. But I also keep looking past them, my gaze darting toward the door.

  By five thirty, I'm starting to worry.

  Six o'clock finds me still standing there, but I'm mostly scrolling on my phone. Sheer luck prompts me to look away from the president's most recent Twitter rant to find a pair of confused eyes staring at me from behind black rimmed glasses.

  A smile automatically rises to my face.

  Eli glances around, and my enthusiasm droops a bit. There's nobody here except us. Is he really that worried about us being seen together? Surely it wouldn't be the first time; he's approached me often enough.

  My concern is forgotten quickly enough as he keeps walking. I fall into step beside him, and we move toward the parking lot.

  "To what do I owe this pleasure?" he asks.

  It strikes me then--yeah, he has approached me often enough. But this time, I was the one to approach him.

  What else was I supposed to do, though? All these weeks, he's sought me out in the middle of my solitary vigils or after the crowds have died down. Today, of course, he was nowhere in sight, and I couldn't wait another day. I don't know how I even managed to wait this long.

  Excitement and nerves bubble together in my throat. I bounce a little in my step, hardly able to contain it.

  So I let it out.

  "I did it," I squeak.

  His head whips around. "You did?"

  "Yup. This morning. I did it. I really did."

  I feel light enough to float away on the breeze.

  I feel like I'm seconds from crashing down to earth.

  But I don't care. I've committed now. This is happening.

  "I'm running for Ryker's seat."

  How can this possibly be real?

  After going around in circles in my head all week, my sense of purpose finally drowned out my concerns. I waited until the last possible second, of course, but I went home this afternoon and finished the paperwork. I brought the forms and the petitions here, to this very building where this journey began.

  Now I'm on the ballot. I have so much work to do, it makes me dizzy. I should be home right now, putting together a website or figuring out campaign finance law or something. I should probably be hiring a campaign manager.

  But there was only one thing I really, truly wanted to do, and that was to see Eli's face when I told him.

  So here I am.

  And it's worth it.

  He stops right there in the middle of the empty sidewalk. He turns to me, and brightness fills his eyes. "You're running."

  "I'm running."

  "You're going to do it."

  "I mean, I have to at this point. My name is on the ballot."

  My fingers and toes tingle as my nerves start up again.

  But this man is looking at me as if I hung the moon. He drops his shoulder, letting his briefcase slide to the ground, then he holds his arms out.

  I fall into them.

  He wraps me up in a hug it feels like I've been waiting my entire life for. I throw my arms around his neck and bury my face against his throat. He smells even better than I imagined. His body is just as strong and muscular as I hoped, and I cling onto him with every ounce of strength I have.

  "I'm so proud of you, Julie."

  "Is it egotistical if I say I'm proud of me, too?"

  A laugh rumbles through his broad chest. "I won't hold it against you."

  "Thank you." Fisting my hands in his jacket, I close my eyes and breathe him in. Gratitude wells up inside me. "Thanks for telling me I could do it. Knowing you believed in me…it meant a lot."

  He squeezes me tighter. "You're an easy person to believe in. You're going to change so many minds."

  Conviction underlies his tone, and it seeps into my bones.

  I can do this. I can.

  And if quiet, don't-rock-the-boat me can run for elected office, then I can do anything.

  Including this.

  Reckless abandon fills me. I pull back. He loosens his grip, but he doesn't let go, and then we're there—nose to nose and eye to eye.

  Lips to lips.

  We freeze in that position, like some statue of Greek lovers, poised on the brink of a kiss. Part of me wants to look away, but adrenaline surges through my veins.

  For months now, we've floated around this. We've bantered and talked and brushed arms and shoulders and hands.

  But we've always danced away from the precipice. Suddenly, I can't understand why.

  His gaze flicks down to my mouth and back. One of his brows rises. His embrace shifts ever so slightly, growing softer. Like he's really holding me instead of only giving me a hug.

  Daring to drift my hand higher, I twist my fingers through the short hairs at the nape of his neck. Warmth curls inside me at the easy intimacy. My breath catching, I let myself really feel the length of his body against mine.

  I feel the insistent nudge of hardness against my abdomen.

  Kindling turns to fire deep inside me.

  And I break.

  In one swift movement, I lean in. He's right there, joining me in closing the gap. Our mouths crash together. I open for him instantly, and he surges for
ward, pressing past my lips with his tongue, clutching me closer and letting his hand drift to grasp me by the hip. My breasts mash into his chest, and my nipples light up under the pressure and heat.

  Jesus, he tastes good. Liquid gold flows across my skin at the scrape of his teeth. He takes command of the kiss, and I yield to him, happy to cede control after so many weeks of assuming this mantle of leadership I never wanted and never asked for.

  I lose track of time, kissing and kissing and kissing him. The space between my legs goes hot and wet. I want to climb him. I want to spread my legs and wrap my thighs around his waist and grind.

  I want him on me, in me, over me.

  But just as I start to deepen the kiss further, he yanks himself away.

  Panting hard, he holds me back. His green eyes are dark with lust, his glasses smudged and askew. For the first time, his perfect suit is rumpled, and holy hell, but I can't wait to get it off of him.

  His hands go to iron on my arms. "Not here."

  Oh. Crap.

  Right.

  I look around. Thank God the area is still deserted, but this entire thing was really freaking stupid. I'm a political candidate now, apparently. The last thing I need is for the first headline about my candidacy to be an arrest for public indecency.

  "My apartment is twenty minutes away," I offer.

  "Mine is five."

  "Oh, thank God."

  "Follow me?"

  "Anywhere." It comes out too earnest for a hookup. I'm saying too much.

  But he has to know—hasn't he? I may have started this movement to hold my assemblyman accountable, but Eli was the one to lead me into becoming a media figure and then a candidate for the man's seat. If I followed him into this new life, I'm sure as hell going to follow him to his place.

  "Come on." He lets me go and holds out his hand.

  Without hesitation, I take it. And I let him lead the way.

  5

  Eli's apartment is just as close as he promised. I park my fifteen-year-old Honda next to his new Beamer in front of a row of little brick townhomes. A faint squirm of discomfort gives me pause. Someone's probably going to write me a nasty note and put it on my cracked windshield, telling me to move my car before I pull down property values.