Rogue Nights (The Rogue Series Book 6)

by Talia Hibbert

  The newscast continued, but the room around Madeline fell into a brief, stunned silence before exploding into activity. Julie called out for Jeremy to be sure the clip recorded, and Madeline jumped onto Twitter to pull up the news station’s feed. No clip yet, but she knew it was just a matter of time.

  Holy crap. Her mind replayed Kimbrell’s words, his booming voice harsh and crude, and her stomach lurched. They could not allow that man to be elected mayor.

  Refresh, refresh… it had to show up soon. One more reload, and finally! She clicked to open the tweet with the clip, copied the link, and dropped it into an instant message to Julie. Then she bookmarked it under the “Kimbrell” folder in her browser.

  “Mads!”

  “Coming!” Madeline grabbed her notebook, pen, and phone and hurried to Julie’s desk for the confab she knew was coming.

  It was going to be another late night.

  Madeline dragged herself into the office Wednesday morning after a scant four hours of sleep, the largest travel mug she owned in her hand. She took another long sip of coffee as she dropped her briefcase at her desk before heading toward the grouping of tables at the center of the open room. She needed about another gallon of coffee before she’d feel awake enough to do much, but first, Susanna had called an all-hands meeting for 9 a.m. It looked like everyone had made it in, and from the half-mast eyelids surrounding her, everyone else was about as awake as she.

  “Thanks for being here, everyone.”

  Susanna Arthur stepped into the center of the room, dressed in her usual colorful business suit, today’s choice a rich, dark blue that set her deep brown skin aglow. A matching headband held back her short, natural curls. She looked around at the assembled campaign team, a small smile on her face.

  “Let me start by thanking all of you, again, for all of your hard work. I know the past couple of days have been particularly difficult, especially for those of you who’ve been handling inquiries from the media and the public.”

  Her expression grew serious. “I want to be clear that our infrastructure platform has been a focus of this campaign from the beginning, and this unfortunate event will not change our approach. We have solid, well-thought-out goals, and those will not change.

  “As to Mr. Kimbell’s regrettable remarks, of course, we have released a statement condemning his words. On a personal level, I was stunned and saddened that he would voice racism of that sort, much less ascribe blame on that basis. There is no place in a just world for that type of thinking.”

  Arthur’s voice softened. “I’d also like to thank you all for your mindful and measured response to this week’s events. Your level-headed actions are just as appreciated as your willingness to work hard. We have only a few days left until the election, and we intend to continue on the same course we have laid from the beginning: a strong and progressive vision for the future of the people of Atlanta. Thank you.”

  Arthur nodded as the staffers broke into applause before beginning to break up back into their own work areas. Madeline headed back to her computer to get caught up on the messages she’d missed. She’d glanced at her email on the way out the door at home and groaned at the 400-plus new messages. And then she still had Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram to deal with.

  She took another long drag from her coffee mug and settled in to work.

  Through the chaos of the next few days, Madeline managed to carve out time to exchange a few more emails with Harris. The accident served as a turning point in their discussions somehow, shifting from totally focused on the Arthur campaign toward more personal insights.

  Harris was a Grady baby—the rarity of an Atlanta native, born at the city’s primary public hospital, Grady Memorial. Madeline herself had moved to the city only after college, having grown up in small-town central Georgia. She also knew that Harris spent a lot of time working with “government types,” as he called them, though the way he used the term seemed more fond, if occasionally exasperated, than derogatory.

  Madeline had just gotten home on Friday—at nearly 10 p.m., the earliest night all week—and was checking her email one last time before bed when she got a new message from Harris. Yawning around a smile, she opened the message, but she wasn’t prepared for what she read.

  My grandfather was an old-line, card-carrying, probable Klan member racist.

  Madeline stared at Harris’s opening line, re-reading it twice before she moved on.

  He was, to put it mildly, an asshole of the highest caliber. He thought nothing of dropping the n-word or worse, though of course he had that false front of Southern politeness he used when he had to interact with someone who wasn’t lily-white.

  I thank my lucky stars every day that my father, as conservative as he was, cut off contact with his father not long before I was born. I only saw my grandfather a handful of times before he died, and I could’ve done without those brief encounters. I can’t imagine who I might’ve been if my dad had followed his father’s lead. My parents have always been Republicans, but in the true sense of the “compassionate conservative.” They’ve given up on today’s Republican Party, and they find the current administration repugnant. I’m doubtful that the needle will move far enough to get them to call themselves Democrats, but if it comes down to it, they might just start voting blue.

  No questions this time. Nothing about his business or the election, not directly. Just a personal story that told Madeline so much about the mystery man behind the emails.

  Brain too tired to muster the kind of response the message warranted, she marked the email to answer the next morning.

  First: sleep.

  Palmer loved Saturdays. He let his manager open the store, which was much less busy on the weekends, so he got to sleep in. Granted, 7 a.m. might not seem like sleeping in, but when his alarm blasted him awake at five most mornings, two extra hours in bed felt like a day off.

  That didn’t mean he wouldn’t still have coffee, though despite his business, he wasn’t much of a coffee snob. He kept a single-brew maker for the rare days at home, so he brewed up a quick cup before settling in at his computer to check email.

  He didn’t want to admit to himself that he was hoping for a response to his message from the night before. He’d written and sent it on impulse, not sure whether he’d stepped over too many boundaries. But after hearing Lionel Kimbrell’s nasty comment earlier in the week, the stories he’d heard about his grandfather had been taking up too much space in his mind. He’d needed to get the words out.

  His email loaded slowly, but sure enough, among the new arrivals was the reply he’d hoped for. He took a breath as he opened it.

  Thank you for sharing that. I think a lot of us have had to deal with racism among our friends and families at times. Your parents sound like good people, and so do you.

  I’m sorry to say that I may be unable to respond as often over the next few days. I hope I’ve been able to answer your questions, but please feel free to contact me at any time, and I will do my best to get back to you.

  Palmer set aside his phone and the urge to respond. The campaign had to be crazy busy with the election days away, even without considering the events of the past week. He’d wait until after the election to get back in touch.

  Actually…. He stood up straight. Maybe there was a way he could give the staffers a little extra boost on election day. He did, after all, own a coffee shop. And if it got him the chance to meet his correspondence partner face to face….

  That’d just be the icing on the cinnamon roll.

  Tuesday dawned sunny, chilly, and windy. Madeline was at her desk at 7:30 after being one of the first in line at her polling place. A lot of the staff had taken advantage of early voting in the weeks leading up to the election, but she’d always gotten a rush out of being there in person on the big day. She wore her “I Voted!” sticker with the peach design proudly on the lapel of her lucky suit.

  Lucky because she’d worn it the day she got the job.

  She
booted up her computer and sipped from her second cup of coffee as the system loaded. She’d spent her twenty minutes in line at the precinct clearing out some spam, so now she mostly had messages that mattered. None from Harris, though. She hadn’t heard from him since the last email she sent Friday night. But then, she had warned him she’d be scarce.

  Or maybe he didn’t see the need to continue their correspondence once the election was over.

  Shaking off the thought, Madeline opened Twitter and gave it a quick look, finding nothing unexpected yet, and then dove into her email. She needed to keep the decks cleared so she’d see any problems immediately. The campaign itself might be over, but election day carried its own set of worries: people needing rides to the polls, voters being denied ballots, machines breaking down, illegal or unethical intimidation tactics.

  She settled in for one last long day. At least by 7 p.m., it would all be over but the counting.

  Palmer stopped outside the door of the small storefront with the ARTHUR FOR ATLANTA banner hanging in the window. He banged the side of his foot against the door and gave his best smile to the guy who glanced toward him. A moment later, the door opened, and the guy’s face appeared in the gap.

  “Can I help… is that coffee? And doughnuts?”

  “And Danish and cinnamon rolls,” Palmer confirmed. “I figured y’all could use a midafternoon caffeine and sugar boost.”

  The guy gave him a huge smile and pushed the door open wide. “C’mon in, man! Join the rush.”

  Palmer followed the guy to a folding table against one wall, half covered with the remains of what must have been lunch, and set down his bags in the empty space. He spent a few minutes setting things up, cups and lids and cream and sugar, napkins for the pastries, and a little box of wooden stir sticks.

  He turned to find himself face to face with the woman he knew only as Mads. “Hi!” She smiled at him. “Thanks for the sustenance. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you out from behind the counter before.”

  Surprised to see her there, of all places, he held out a hand automatically. “I don’t think we’ve ever been officially introduced. Palmer Harrison.”

  She took his hand and gave it a firm shake. “Madeline Maloney,” she said. “I handle the social media for the campaign.”

  He froze, fingers still wrapped around her hand. “Social media? Like, Twitter and stuff?”

  “Yeah.” She tilted her head to one side. “Why?”

  His hand fell away from hers. “You’re the one I’ve been emailing with.”

  Madeline’s eyes widened. “Email…. Wait. Harrison? You’re Harris?”

  Why is my throat so dry? “I’m Harris.”

  Madeline stood rooted in place, her brain scrambling to right itself. The hot barista she’d admired for weeks and the eloquently entertaining stranger she’d been emailing were the same person?

  Holy. Effing. Crap.

  Her body moved without her command. She grabbed for Harris’s… Palmer’s… whoever’s hand and dragged him down the hall and into the tiny little space they used as a conference room. She shoved the door closed, spun around on her heel, and planted her hands on her hips.

  “Is this a joke?”

  To his credit, Harr… Palmer looked stunned by the suggestion. “I swear,” he told her, raising his hands. “I had no freaking idea. You never signed the emails, so I didn’t know your name. And at the shop, I only know you as ‘caramel latte for Mads.’”

  He seemed sincere, but…. “If you’re that plugged into the race, how did you never see me in anything? I’ve been at press conference and other events, and those have been splashed all over the news.”

  Palmer dropped his hands to his sides. “I work twelve-hour days most days. When I get home, I pretty much fall into bed. I can’t remember the last time I watched the news. I get nearly all my information from Twitter and links from Twitter.”

  Madeline deflated at that. “Twelve-hour days sounds familiar. Hell, today’ll probably be a twenty-hour day. And that’s if the race isn’t insanely close.”

  Palmer huffed out a laugh. “How are things looking, anyway?”

  She shook her head and planted her hands on her hips. “Can’t tell yet. No exit polls, which is good and bad. Our get-out-the-vote ground game is solid, and the voter counts by precinct look pretty good. But you just never know what people are going to do once they’re in the booth.”

  She stopped and slapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh man,” she said from behind her fingers. “Sorry. You didn’t sign up for me to go all political-operative on you.”

  Palmer lifted an eyebrow and leaned against the table next to them. “I kind of did, though,” he replied. “Unless you think I kept up our email correspondence out of some sense of duty.”

  Madeline blinked twice and then let her hand drop. “Fair point.” She tilted her head. “You really didn’t know it was me?”

  “Nope.” He crossed his arms—nice forearms—over his chest. “Not a clue. If I had, I would’ve said something sooner. I’ve spent the last couple of weeks trying to figure out how to approach you at the shop without turning into the creepiest of creepers.”

  A giggle slipped out before Madeline could hold it back. “So I guess this whole parallel-relationships thing worked out well?”

  Palmer uncrossed his arms and shifted on his feet, the tiny move somehow bringing him much closer. “Sure looks that way.”

  Madeline leaned in just that little bit. “If you’d approached me, what would you have said?”

  He smiled softly. “I would’ve asked for your number. Or your email. Or just if you wanted me to buy you a cup of coffee.”

  That made her laugh. “Buy me a cup at your coffee shop?”

  “Sure.” He shrugged. “I might not pay full retail, but I still do pay for it.”

  “Fair point.” She took a half step toward him. “What about now?”

  He was near enough now that she could feel his body heat. “What do you mean?”

  “Now that you know the truth,” she replied, lifting a hand to run her fingers down his forearm. “What would you ask me now?”

  “Right now,” he drawled, “I might ask for a kiss for luck.”

  Madeline raised her eyebrows. “Do you think we need luck?”

  He shook his head. “Not in the least.” He gave her a crooked smile. “But it couldn’t hurt, right?”

  She lifted her hand from his arm to cup the side of his face. “Only one way to find out.”

  From: Harris

  To: Mads

  Re: Infrastructure

  Good morning, sleepyhead. Quite a party your crew threw last night. And this morning.

  I’d offer to bring you celebratory coffee, but I’m fresh out of caramel lattes.

  From: Mads

  To: Harris

  Re: Infrastructure

  That’s okay. I know a guy.

  I don’t have to be up for another hour, and my feet are cold. Stop emailing me and come back to bed.

  Thank You!

  Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed my story. If you'd like to try more of my short fiction, check out Wide Open Spaces, a collection of my previously published short stories, or Hands On, a bundle of four thematically related novellas. For something completely different, try my erotic BDSM M/M/M menage scifi short story (really!), "Fringes."

  Also by Shae Connor

  The Hands On Collection

  Rhythm & Blues

  Tongue & Groove

  Heart & Soul

  Graphite & Glitter

  The Sons Series

  Unfortunate Son

  Wayward Son

  Nobody’s Son

  “Sons and Brothers”

  Anthologies/Collections

  Wide Open Spaces

  All in a Day’s Work (“Ice Cream Dreams”)

  Playing Ball (Home Field Advantage)

  Standalones

  Teaching Ben

  Sand & Water

&
nbsp; Falling Together

  Accidental Fall

  En Fuego

  Model Student

  “Fringes”

  “Sons and Brothers”

  “In from the Cold”

  “Of Holiday Spirits, Wake-Up Calls, and Happily Ever Afters”

  “Chicago”

  “The Cabin on the Hill”

  “Sharing Christmas”

  Acknowledgments

  Big thanks to Vanessa North and Rebecca Crowley for beta reading, and to Tamsen, Amy Jo, and Zoe for putting these anthologies together. Thanks for having me!

  About the Author

  Shae Connor lives in Atlanta, where she’s a lackadaisical government worker by day and writes sweet-hot romance under the cover of night. She’s been making things up for as long as she can remember, but it took her a while to figure out that maybe she should try writing them down.

  Shae is part Jersey, part Irish, and all Southern, which explains why she never shuts up. When she’s not chained to her laptop, she enjoys cooking, traveling, watching baseball, reading voraciously, giving and receiving hugs, and wearing tiaras. In her copious spare time, she volunteers as director and editor of the Dragon Con on-site publication, the Daily Dragon.

  You can find Shae hanging out on Twitter most any time @shaeconnor, but for the more direct route, you can email her at shaeconnorwrites@gmail.com or visit her website at shaeconnorwrites.com.

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